


Noctiluca scintillans

by alexaprilgarden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (I was asked to add this and I gladly do), 1990s, AU, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Cannabis, Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/F, First Kiss, First Sex, France - Freeform, Gay Sex, Happy Ending, Heartbreak, M/M, Masturbation, Mdma, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual exploration, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, Smoking, Summer Holidays, Swimming, Tags May Change, Teenlock, background Harry Watson/OFC, description of a dysfunctional family, did I mention the very very very happy ending?, diving in the sea, extasy, mentions of John's former girlfriends, mentions of drug use, minor depressive episode, paramount seductive smoking, really quite a lot of sex, some 1990s music, switchlock, this whole fic turns out to be a lot more epic than I ever intended.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 17:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 160,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14431068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexaprilgarden/pseuds/alexaprilgarden
Summary: August 1994: These are John Watson's last summer holidays. It's his first trip abroad in ages, and the first one without his parents -- three weeks on a camping site at the French Atlantic Coast, together with Harry and her girlfriend. It's swimming and hanging around at the beach, red wine in the evening and sleeping in. Until a dark-haired boy at John's age puts up his tent a few feet away from him and changes everything.Beta'ed by the incomparable, wonderful @SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_john, the incredible, and madly helpful @green_violin_bow, and my lovely, ever-inspiring @ennisnovember. The breathtaking drawing in the cover art was made by the amazingly talented @zigster. It's an honour to work with you and I'm deeply grateful. <3





	1. Part one: France

**Part One: France**

  
  


**August 1994**

“If you’re going to France for the holidays, Harriet, you’re going to take your brother!” 

Harry stomps up the narrow staircase up to her room, passing John’s and doesn’t even look at him. He got home from rugby training five minutes ago and should actually be doing the rest of his homework. But he’s exhausted and lying on his bed, reading. He looks up from his page, waiting for some further shouting, either from Harry or their mum. 

Nothing else happens. He goes back to reading. 

— 

Half an hour later, Harry comes to his room. 

“Would you mind, Johnny?” she asks, leaning against the doorway. She’s the only one that still calls him Johnny. 

“Mind what?” 

“Coming to France with Gemma and me during the summer holidays?” 

He looks at her for a moment. Of course he doesn’t mind, but there’s no need to tell her right now. It’s really fucking annoying of her to act as if _he_ is the worst thing that could happen to her on a summer holiday trip to France. 

“Please, Johnny. Mum won’t let me go on my own. I’ll go mad if I stay here all summer. Gemma knows this camping site on the Atlantic coast. It’s really nice. Huge beach.” 

She comes closer and sits down on his bed, leaning against the wall. She’s just a year older than him and, come to think of it, it must be humiliating for her to be forced to take her younger brother to make sure she didn’t end up in any trouble. She is moving out at the end of August, when she’d start a job in Portsmouth, but their mum’s trying to keep an eye on her as long as possible. Things haven’t been going exactly well between their mum and Harry since their dad had moved out three years ago. In fact, a lot of things hadn’t gone well. 

She tilts her chin forward and blows a huff of air through her fringe. She’d had her hair cut last year, it’s not much longer than John’s now. She is the same size as him, and she has the same dark blond hair. Sometimes they are mistaken for twins. Harry laughs about that, she actually loves it. She loves being _Harry_ — boyish, loud, challenging, a troublemaker. An utter pain in the arse, sometimes. She’s as stubborn as John is. And she’s his sister. 

Harry looks down at her feet. Looks up at him. Looks pleading. 

“Please.” 

John feigns disinterest and pretends to read. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says eventually. 

He sees her grin from the corner of his eyes. She nudges his shin with her socked feet until he looks up. 

“Thank you, little brother.” 

“I’m fucking seventeen, Harry, stop calling me that,” he mutters under his breath and in spite of not lifting his gaze from his book, he still sees her smile. 

— 

John spends the first three weeks of the holidays working. A neighbour working at a print shop in town and had pointed how short on staff they often were during summer. The job is okay, although he’d love to do something more useful, something more interesting. But then John can pretty well use the money. 

And then it’s — this, the trip to France with Gemma and Harry. An overnight train ride across England and France to a town called Arcachon and Europe’s biggest sand dune. They change trains at Victoria Station and again in Paris, and they go on the ferry between Dover and Calais, carrying their backpacks, sleeping bags and tents. John has to admit the trip sounded amazing, he hadn’t been on a proper holiday since their parents had been divorced. And he’s never been on a holiday without his parents. It’s about fucking time. 

They arrive at the camping site on a Saturday afternoon in August. He’s sweating and tired, and already confused by everybody speaking bloody _French_. In spite of years of learning it at school, John’s knowledge of the language is barely enough to communicate the most basic things and he gladly leaves all the talking to Harry and Gemma. 

He likes Gemma. She’s in Harry’s year, and she’s pretty. She’s got brown hair falling down to her shoulders in gentle waves. She smells amazing. She’s witty and she has this wicked smile. She laughs a lot, at least when she’s with Harry. Gemma is a just a bit taller than him, and very slender. He couldn’t wait to see her in a bathing suit. He actually hopes he might get the chance to hit on her. 

The camping site is just fine. It’s close to the sea, on a hill right above the beach. There are trees growing on the sandy ground, some kind of tall pine trees that John doesn’t recognize. The air smells of them, like warm wood and pine, and the wind carries the scent of the sea and dried seaweed. When he walks across the sand, he feels the pine needles under his bare feet, and the small cones. He loves the feeling. He had taken off his shoes as soon as he’d put down his big backpack on the spot they’d chosen for their tents and never put them back on. 

The place where they put up their tents is just a few feet away from the steep slope leading down to the long beach, under a few trees to shield them from the sun. They’ve got an amazing view at the sea, blue and wide and beautiful. There’s a narrow path down the slope, with wooden steps in between. On top, at the foot of a big pine, is a wooden bench overlooking the beach and the shore. 

He squints his eyes to make out the blurred line between the sea and the horizon, glistening white in the sunlight. He sets up his and Harry’s tent, the old blue and yellow one their dad had bought them to camp in their garden when they’d been kids. Harry helps Gemma with hers. He casts Gemma a few glances, but she’s just smiling in a slightly incredulous way that John doesn’t know how to interpret. 

They’re finished almost at the same time and to his surprise, Harry takes her backpack and sleeping bag and puts it all into Gemma’s tent. 

_Well, okay,_ he thinks, and immediately realizes how much of a fool he’s been to think Harry would share a tent with him. 

Gemma goes to the camping site’s small supermarket and buys some bread, grapes and a bottle of cheap red wine. They eat sitting in the sand in front of the two tents, and it really, finally feels like the holidays. They watch a spectacular sunset and share the wine. It’s good, even though they’re drinking from their cheap plastic mugs — or maybe that’s exactly what it makes it so good. John pours some more wine into Gemma’s mug when she’s finished it, and he spills a few droplets on her hand. She licks it off and John watches her. She’s so damn gorgeous. 

When it’s been dark for a long time, he grabs his toiletries and goes to the men’s showers. He leaves Gemma and Harry sitting in front of their tent, still chatting and laughing. 

— 

He walks across the dark camping site. He hears laughter and music from the small bar near the supermarket. He walks to the wooden bench and sits down and looks at the dark sea. He listens to the waves, to the wind in the trees. He smells, even tastes the salt and the sand in the air. Everything is different here, feels different. He’s glad that he can escape his life for a while. 

A calm sense of freedom settles in his stomach. 

The feeling of these holidays is… this. Three weeks of watching the sun set over the Atlantic ocean, drinking wine at night and no one fucking telling me what to do. No work, no homework, no exams to prepare for. 

When he walks the few steps back to their tents, Harry and Gemma have already turned in. He expects them to talk for hours, keeping him awake, but they don’t. They fall silent surprisingly quickly and before John can think that they must be exhausted from the trip as well, he’s already asleep. 

— 

It takes him two more days to realize he’s been an even bigger fool. 

Two days of watching his sister and Gemma smearing sun tan lotion on each other’s shoulders (and God, Gemma looks lovely in her black bikini), three days of stealing each other’s food, of touching constantly, all those things John had thought simply are what girls do. Girls. Friends. Girlfriends. Whatever. 

It’s the third night when he comes back from the loo and finds the little space between their tents empty again. Inside his tent, he shrugs out of his cropped jeans. He leaves on the t-shirt and his boxers for sleeping, switches on his torch and starts reading the crime novel he’d got for his last birthday. 

He hears Harry’s and Gemma’s hushed voices, their laughter sparkling over the constant, low noise down from the sea. He’s used to them getting silent soon. He reads for a while, until he has difficulties keeping his eyes open and barely manages to put away the book and switch off the torch. He’s already drifting off to sleep when he hears a low moan out in the night. 

His eyes fly open. 

_What the—?_

No, maybe he’s been dreaming, he tells himself. 

After a few moments, just enough to let him calm down to feel sleepy again, there’s another one, higher, and this time he’s definitely not dreaming. 

And the voice he hears moaning is definitely Gemma’s. 

And the voice who hushes her, pointed with a soft, tell-tale smack of a kiss, is definitely Harry’s. 

He frowns and squeezes his eyes shut. He stays like that for a moment, until it feels as if his forehead is cramping. 

Slowly, he understands. He sees why Harry hadn’t been keen on taking him on this trip, why she’s sleeping in Gemma’s tent and why Gemma had done nothing but laugh at him with raised eyebrows whenever he tried to establish eye contact, hoping, as days passed, that it would eventually lead to more. 

He stifles a groan of frustration and annoyance at himself for being so daft. Then he sits up, making sure to rustle and make some noise. He digs through his backpack in the dark until he finds the small plastic box with ear plugs he’d thrown in at the last minute, just in case. You wouldn’t believe how noisy a camping site can get at night. 

He lies down again, plugs in his ears. and he can hear nothing but his own blood rushing through his body. It sounds much like the Atlantic ocean just a few hundred feet away. 

He’s baffled, yes. But he isn’t shocked. It makes… sense. This feels much more like Harry than dating boys would. 

There are more things on his mind than he can count, and when he finally falls asleep, he only does because he is too tired to think any more. 

— 

He doesn’t quite know where to look while they’re having breakfast. The girls don’t talk much. They’re sleepy, and even though he doesn’t want to pry, he can see the easy care, the intimacy between them. When Gemma is finished, she leaves to take a shower. 

He clears his throat. Better get this over with. 

“Er, so. Um. You and Gemma…?” 

Harry looks up, still chewing. 

“Mmmh…?” 

“Are you — are you together?” John says, and it sounds a hell of a lot too much like _blurting,_ and he hates it. 

Harry tenses, sits a little straighter and swallows. Suddenly his sister, usually spiky and abrasive, looks defensive and a bit vulnerable and it tears John’s heart apart to see her like that. 

“Hey, it’s — it’s fine. It’s all fine. Gemma’s… she’s really lovely,” he says quickly. 

Harry smirks and mumbles, “Yeah, I’ve noticed you like her.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have any idea,” John tries to defend himself. 

“She’s noticed as well,” Harry adds, smiling now and looking a bit more like her usual self. 

“Yeah — I get it!” John laughs, and he doesn’t know where to look. “I just, I — I didn’t know. About you,” he says then, more careful. 

“I know, Johnny.” Harry takes a deep breath. 

“I — I —,” she starts over again and almost chokes on her words. John watches her for a minute wrangling half-finished sentences and thoughts which she must have gone over and over and _over_ again. And then he stretches out his hand and pulls her into a hug. They haven’t done that since the night their dad stormed out of the house that used to be their home, a bag in his hand. 

She rests against his shoulder. He can smell her hair, her skin, and she smells so much like home that it makes his heart ache. He feels puffs of her warm breath on his own skin and when she pulls back after a few moments, her eyes are wet. 

“Okay. This has no business making me cry, right?” she says a little defiantly and smiles. She’s still holding his hand. She looks at their hands, at their similar shape and size. John’s is slightly broader, but small for a man’s hand, and hers is very strong for a woman’s. Not very different at all. 

She takes a deep breath. 

“I’m fucking gay and I guess I’ve known since primary school.” 

John smiles, a tad insecure. But still. 

“Okay.” 

“Gemma and I have been dating for six weeks.” 

“Okay,” he says again. 

“Yeah. And that’s… it.” 

“Okay.” 

He squeezes her hand and doesn’t let go. 

“You really okay with that?” she asks after a while. 

“Sure I am.” 

“Do you think mum will be?” 

The thought of their parents gives John a sting. He can see easily why Harry never has brought this up. Since the divorce, their mum has been struggling to pay for their livelihood. They might have to sell the house. Although Harry mostly acts as if she doesn’t give a shit about anything, she’s actually trying to protect their mum. Just as he does. 

“Yeah. She will,” John says, finally, because she _has_ to. 

— 

Later that morning, John is lying stretched out on his belly in front of their tents. He’s wearing his short jeans again, and it’s getting warm, so he skipped the t-shirt. He feels the salty breeze on his bare shoulders. He’s got his book in front of him on his towel, but he isn’t really reading. He’s looking at the sea, its colours even more intense through his sun glasses. He’s watching people passing by every once in a while, towels slung over their shoulders, on their way down the hill to the beach. 

Harry and Gemma have already left to go swimming. Harry had tentatively threaded her fingers between Gemma’s as they walked, and turned to John just before they disappeared down the wooden staircase. She’d smiled, proud and grateful and, as John realized after a moment, very much like Harry. Like a Harry who wasn’t trying to hide, who wasn’t causing trouble to distract people from the vulnerable woman she was underneath her tough, impenetrable shell. Harry who seemed, for once, happy with the way things were. 

John had smiled back at her. It wasn’t like the smiles they usually cast each other — this one was deep, warm, carrying all the affection they felt for each other and that they so often forgot about. The smile had lingered on his lips for a long time. He’s still smiling when he finally starts to read his book. 

Half a chapter later, he looks up again and spots them down at the beach. Gemma has put her arm around Harry’s shoulders and tilts her head towards her to say something. Harry’s laughing, John thinks he can almost hear it. 

Then he can’t see them anymore, and two guys his age are walking by, stopping on the dusty path and blocking his view. 

“Hey, Sherlock! You coming?” one of them calls as he turns back to where they’re coming from. 

The boys leave the path and stroll past John’s and the girls’ tents, probably trying to find a place to set up their own. 

Another boy comes down the path, tall and lanky, carrying a heavy backpack over one shoulder and a sleeping bag in one hand. He’s fumbling with one of those fancy discmans and headphones with his other hand. John looks at his old Sony Walkman lying in his open tent. The battery casing doesn’t shut properly anymore, he’s had to fix it with sellotape. And just on the way here, it shredded one of his favourite cassettes. 

The boy walks past John a little more closely than necessary. The headphones slide from his hand and land in the sand. John reaches out and takes them before the boy can bow down. They look expensive, much better than his own. He lifts them up to hand them back. 

The boy looks down at him. It’s just for one moment, a short one, but it’s enough for John to make his heart beat a just a tiny bit faster. John doesn’t even know why. 

The boy brushes a stray dark curl from face, bends down and takes the headphones from John’s hand. He shifts up the backpack that has slid down his shoulder. His black leather shoes are sinking into the sand as he stands there. Some of the sand seeps into them, clings to his black jeans. 

His old Pink Floyd t-shirt is sticking to his chest. John looks at him again, really looks now. It’s the eyes that astonish John, they’re clear and bright above high, sharp cheekbones. He can’t quite put a name on their colour, oscillating between grey, green and blue. 

The boy looks at John and says, “Thank you,” in a deep rumbling voice. He shrugs his backpack up on his shoulder once again, pushing the sleeve of his t-shirt up along with it, revealing an inch more of his biceps, pale skin with a few freckles scattered over it. He leaves, following the two guys that passed a few minutes ago. 

John swallows and turns his head to look where the boy is going. His friends are some thirty yards away, almost hidden by a few other tents, and sitting on their backpacks. John watches the boy until he arrives at his friends’, and only turns back to his book before they will find him staring. 

“Yeah. You’re welcome,” John says, far too late. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've based this fic on my own summer holidays I spent at at the _Dune de Pyla_ in France in 1998. I met a mysterious dark-haired boy there, shared cigarettes and red wine with him, went swimming (almost) naked in the Atlantic Ocean and we kissed. Sadly, that's been it. I've had a good little heartbreak over him.  
>   
>  I'm enjoying writing this so much - I hope you'll have just as much fun like reading it.


	2. Chapter 2

In between turning the pages of his crime novel, John watches the British boys set up their tents. The one who dropped his headphones, Sherlock, has his own tent, and it looks brandnew. Never even been taken out of its original packaging before. When he is finished setting it up, he vanishes inside and doesn’t come out for ages. John decides to get a sandwich from the supermarket and go down to the beach. 

At the beach, he puts his towel on the warm sand next to Gemma. She is lying on hers with her sunglasses on, looking as if she is asleep. He tries very much not to look at the soft skin of her belly, already taking on a gentle tan. 

“Hey John,” she says sleepily, opening her eyes and lifting a hand to shield her face from the sun. 

“Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

He stands next to his towel, unsure whether to sit down or go for a swim. 

“You didn’t. Just dozing. I’m so lazy.” 

She yawns, and smiles at him, as if he hadn’t found out a couple of hours ago that she’s sleeping with his sister. And weirdly enough, it might just work, like this. 

“That’s what holidays are for, aren’t they? To be lazy?” John says. “Any idea where Harry is?” he asks a moment later, scanning the shore for his sister. 

“Swimming? I don’t know, has she taken the snorkle?” Gemma sits up, looking for the thing on their towels. Talking to Gemma really doesn’t feel too awkward. He’s relieved. She doesn’t seem to hold his attempts at flirting with her against him. 

“Yes, at least it isn’t anywhere around here,” John replies. He’s spotted a person swimming a bit further out than he’d expected that might be her. “I think I can see her.” 

He heads to the sea and takes a few steps into the water, until it reaches up to his thigh. It’s cool, of course, it’s the fucking Atlantic. It’s always cool. When he feels some seaweed brushing against his ankle, he jumps in head first, trying not to gasp at the cold water and swims out to where he thinks Harry is. After a few minutes, it’s glorious. He feels more alive than he did in the whole past term. 

It is indeed Harry, out there, snorkling through the cool water. She comes up when she spots him, looking almost comical with the snorkle in her mouth and her cheap pink diving mask on her face. Seawater is pooling under her eyes inside the mask, making it look like two miniature fish tanks. She takes off the mask and smiles at him triumphantly, her face red-rimmed from where the mask had pressed against her skin. 

“I’ve seen some fish, a whole swarm! They were so beautiful. And so quick!” she exclaims, a bit out of breath. 

“Sounds great,” John says. It’s been ages since he’s snorkled, he can barely remember it. 

“You want to try?” 

Without waiting for a reply, she hands him the diving mask. He reaches out his hand to take it, but he’s too slow and it slips from her hand and vanishes in the sea, blue-green and dark underneath them. 

_Oh fuck,_ John thinks as he takes a deep breath and dives into the water to fetch it. 

He’s grateful for the bright pink of the diving mask, it’s easy to see in the blurry saltwater and the fading light. It sinks to the ground slowly, but luckily, and it isn’t as deep as he’d expected, he can see the sandy ground a few feet below him. The diving mask is just out of reach and he paddles faster before his held breath runs out. 

_There’s a weird freedom to diving,_ he thinks, the idea crossing his mind out of the blue. It’s way too expensive for him to make it his hobby, but he’d love to try it properly for once. 

Lower down, the water gets colder. He catches the diving mask just before it drops into the sand, and then turns around and pushes his feet against the soft ground to rise up to the surface up again. He feels swift and elegant, feels the water streaming across his skin as he emerges with just a few small strokes of his legs. 

He doesn’t see Harry when he breaches the water. He’s facing an endless horizon and the open sea. He turns around, searching for her. He considers scanning the beach for the blokes that arrived earlier, and nearly shakes his head at himself for such an idiotic idea. He can’t make out anyone’s face from this distance anyways. 

“Johnny? You found it?” he hears Harry’s voice. He turns again, further now, and she’s three feet away from him, paddling in water. 

He lifts the diving mask with the snorkle still attached to it and grins. 

“You still want to try?” she asks and hell yes, of course he does. 

He has to adjust the mask as he puts it on, since Harry's head is smaller than his. The mouthpiece of the snorkle feels strange and huge in his mouth. 

He cautiously turns and dives, just a bit. He has trouble figuring out the breathing — it’s fucking weird to be able to breathe with his face underwater. His whole head is, but he must be doing it wrong. Because with the next wave water gushes into the snorkle and he coughs so hard he has to lift his head from the water and take off the mask. 

“You don’t have to go that deep, Johnny,” Harry calls, and swims towards him. She takes his hand and pulls him up when he is about to dive far. 

Eventually, he manages. John thinks he wouldn’t exactly have needed Harry to hold his hand, but it is nice to feel her so close, watching over him. 

He’s been snorkling for a few minutes when she taps him on the shoulder. When he looks up, she nods towards the beach and Gemma. He smiles against the mouthpiece of the snorkle and waves her off. 

He spots a fish, later on. At first, he doesn’t even realize it’s a fish, he just sees a sliver of silver moving underneath him. But then it’s there again. He feels the same excitement pulsing through his veins marine scientists must experience when discovering an unknown species, deep down in the Mariana Trench. He hasn’t got any idea what kind of fish it is, but it’s special. Special to him. 

He sees rocks and sand underwater, and more fish. He swims out further. When the waters get too deep and everything underneath turns dark blue first and then black, when the water gets cold and bottomless, he turns and swims back, suddenly in need of the sun to warm his skin again, and in need of rest. 

When he lifts his head from the water, the first things he notices are the sounds — seagulls crying, and the wind. Laughter from the people on the beach. He focuses on the spot where he expects Harry and Gemma. The swim back is a long one, and the walk from the shore to their towels feels long, too, with his limbs heavy without the sea carrying him and his muscles aching. 

After a breathless “Hi” to Harry and Gemma he drops the snorkle and the diving mask in the sand and lets himself fall down on his towel. He just lies there, feeling cool water trickle off his hair, run down the skin of his thighs from his wet swimming trunks. He licks his lips and tastes the salt. 

There’s a mild rush of exhaustion in his arms and legs. The sun is warming him up, evaporating the water until the salt is tautening his skin. Everything feels bright and light and warm without the cool, blue water surrounding him, with its weight on his skin. He’s discovered a new world, and he’ll gather his strength and return to explore it further, sometime later, sometime throughout the next days. He listens to the constant, soothing sound of the sea, to his own beating heart, and closes his eyes and drifts off. 

— 

When he wakes, he can’t tell how long he’s slept. He blinks against the bright afternoon sunlight. Harry’s and Gemma’s towels are deserted. He props himself up on his elbows and watches the beach. The beach isn’t crowded with tourists, nothing like what he remembers from that trip to the _Costa Brava_ when he was a child, but the shore and the sea are wilder here, and feel less tame than the Mediterranean. 

Some twenty yards down the beach, in the direction of the huge _Dune de Pyla,_ he spots the boy, dark curls, sunglasses, that same Pink Floyd t-shirt he’s seen him wearing earlier. He’s sitting in the sand, reading a book which is too big to be a paperback novel, scribbling down notes on a sheet of paper in between. 

_Weird name, Sherlock,_ John thinks. 

John watches him for a while. Sherlock must be about his own age. He’s turning a page in his book, looking lost in thought, when his friends come back from the sea, splashing water at him, making fun. He looks up at them, confused for a moment, as if he’d forgotten where he is, and with whom. He replies, saying something short and monosyllabic, and then goes back to reading. His friends shrug and sit down, drink some water, talk. They look out at the sea and watch the people at the beach. 

John looks away. He sits up to drink from Harry’s water bottle, but the water is warm and he puts it back after the first stale sip. It’s getting too hot here on the beach, and his body feels stiff from sleeping on the sand. He needs to move, and he yearns to feel the sea again, to taste the unknown again. He gets up and walks to the sea. The sand is hot, almost burning the soles of his feet. He thinks he can feel someone’s gaze piercing his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t turn around. 

— 

When the light changes and all the colours around them turn a deeper shade, they leave the beach. The girls head to the camping site shop to get something for dinner and John grabs a fresh towel and his clothes and goes to the men’s showers. There are no single stalls, just one large room. He doesn’t mind, and it’s deserted anyways. 

Nonetheless his heart beats a little faster when Sherlock’s friends arrive, just as he’s washing his hair, scrubbing the salt off his skin. 

It slows down again when it understands that Sherlock hasn’t joined them. 

— 

The next day is slow and sleepy, the hours blurring into one another. He wakes up late, sweating in the warm air of his tent, heated by the sun already high in the sky. He goes for a quick swim right after crawling out of his sleeping bag, hoping the cold water will wake and refresh him. He takes a shower and briefly wonders what he’d do if Sherlock turns up here. _Go on having a shower,_ he thinks, and shakes his head at himself. He brings bread rolls for breakfast on the way back to their tents. Gemma is making coffee. 

Harry insists that she needs coffee even when on vacation, and therefore Gemma brought a camping stove and a small espresso maker. John doesn’t drink much coffee at home, it’s usually tea for him. But still he takes the mug she offers him, and he burns his lips on the hot liquid, then adds a lot of milk afterwards. 

He’d been intending to go for a walk along the beach after breakfast, just as he’d done on their second day. It had been beautiful. But instead, he just stays there, lying on his towel, and he finds he is too lazy to do anything else. 

He listens to Harry and Gemma talking, tries to ignore them when they kiss but watches them nonetheless. It’s just chaste little pecks and he surely isn’t getting off on it. _It’s Harry, dammit,_ he thinks. But he’s curious. Curious as fuck, just to see two people of the same sex being in a relationship. 

It’s entirely normal, he realizes after a while. There’s a strange sense of relief to that, but he quickly stops thinking about why he finds it relieving. For now, the knowledge that it doesn’t feel any different at all is enough. 

— 

He spots the other British guys a couple of times. It’s the two that arrived first that he sees mostly, walking to the supermarket to buy some food, going down to the beach, heading for a shower afterwards. Pretty much the normal camping routine. Sherlock sits in front of his tent most of the time. He smokes cigarettes while he reads and writes down notes and he doesn’t look very excited about camping. He radiates the fuming defiance of someone who tries to keep people from talking to him. But John has the feeling there’s something vulnerable about him. Something fascinating. 

John drags himself to the beach later in the afternoon, borrowing Harry’s snorkle again, impatient to get back into the sea and to watch some more fish. Under the water, he finds spots with many rocks on the ground, secret forests of seaweed and beds of mussels. He stays in the ocean until the skin on his fingers is white and crinkled and until he forgets about everything else. 

— 

When he’s finished eating the chips Harry and Gemma have bought at the camping site’s bar for dinner, he agrees to go to the _Dune de Pyla_ with them, where they said some people were having a campfire. 

It’s the biggest dune in Europe, a sea of fine sand. It shimmers beige with a glimmer of red, rising above a forest of dark-green pines on the one side and above the sea on the other. It’s all blue sea and skies, sunburnt-green and endless ochre and it smells like the South. The fire is all the way up the dune, and walking across the sand is like crossing a small desert. 

The walk from the camping site takes them at least fifteen minutes along the beach and up the dune. When they arrive, there’s a group of maybe ten people gathered around the fire. It’s a large fire and the people there are mainly teenagers John has seen on the camping site, sitting around the fire or standing in the sand talking to each other in French and English and maybe Spanish, drinking beer, smoking. 

He spots Sherlock’s friends, Harry knows them already and introduces them to John. Again, Sherlock isn’t around. 

One of them, a tall, blond guy called James, hands him a bottle of beer and they talk for a while. James, Eddie and Sherlock are going to stay two weeks or a bit longer, they’ll have to see, they say. 

The three of them go to the same school and are about to start their last year, just like John. Everything about them screams public school, their whole demeanor, the way the talk, their expensive, casual clothes that must be Tommy Hilfiger at least. John doesn’t need to know more, doesn’t even ask where they come from. He’s not exactly comfortable with that, with them being so obviously out of his league. It makes him more aware of his own worn-out t-shirt. Of his worries about how the hell he is going to afford studying and med school. But James and Eddie really are okay, and with the next bottle of beer, he manages to push his discomfort aside. 

— 

The next morning John sits at the bench next to where the small path leads down to the beach. It got late last night, drinking beer and talking while they were sitting at the campfire, and they didn’t turn in before the early morning hours. When they went back to their tents, careening slightly and giggling over some stupid joke Harry had cracked, he’d seen the glow of a cigarette in the direction of Sherlock’s tent. He’d stopped for a moment, and saw the glow getting brighter, as if someone dragged on the cigarette. He stood in front of his tent, watching, until he remembered that whoever was smoking there probably wouldn’t even be able to see him in the darkness. 

For now he’s reading and watching the sea in between, still tired, and maybe the tiniest bit hungover. The coffee in his plastic mug is getting cold. It’s his second mug this morning, actually. He takes another sip, cherishing the strong and bitter taste, softened by a generous splash of milk, and goes back to reading. His book is a little predictable, and it isn’t particularly well-written. But he doesn’t mind, it’s good enough for a holiday. He stretches and closes his eyes for a moment. 

The feeling of these holidays. Sleeping, reading, swimming, relaxing. Just the pleasant side of boredom. 

He starts to reread the last paragraph. 

— 

He looks up from his book when he sees someone approaching from the corner of his eyes. It’s Sherlock, and John tries to go on reading at once. Tries to look as if he was reading, at least. 

Sherlock is wearing swimming trunks, simple dark blue, and a t-shirt, he’s got a small towel in his hand. No book today. 

As he passes him by, Sherlock nods at him, flashing him a look from those pale eyes that makes John swallow. He nods back, and internally calls himself a fool for not even managing a proper _hello._

John watches Sherlock walking down the path, dropping his towel unceremoniously in the sand and taking off his shirt. He’s too far away for John to see much at all, but John finds himself unable to look away. It briefly occurs to him that it’s odd, peering at someone like this, but he continues to watch Sherlock as he walks into the water and swims nonetheless. 

Sherlock swims for almost half an hour, with long strides of his arms, out to the sea, back to the shore, and out again. John watches him, never losing sight of his head on top of the small waves. 

He startles when someone pokes at his side. It’s Harry, and she’s staring at him. 

“Hey, Johnny, you’re dreaming with your eyes open? We’re going down to the beach. You want to join us?” 

“Er, yeah, maybe later?” John manages. He could, of course, join them right now. There’s nothing he’d have to do except for go back to his tent and change into his swimming trunks. But somehow it’s too much to handle, he just wants to sit here, on this very spot, and watch. Watch Sherlock, down there. 

“I’ll come around in a moment, Harry. You go, okay?” he says, trying to make them leave. 

Harry glances at him, then looks down at the beach and back at John again, trying to understand. Eventually, she says, “Alright then. Come on, Gemma.” 

They leave, and John sighs. 

Sherlock is still swimming, but he’s going a little slower now and eventually, he leaves the water. He drops into the sand very much like John did yesterday. And he just sits there, facing the sea, with his chest heaving, catching his breath. 

John realizes he hasn’t read a single line in his book since Sherlock walked by. 

— 

John decides to abandon his bench before Sherlock can walk past once more and before John can make a fool of himself for a second time. He spends most of the day swimming, dozing on the beach, snorkling. When he’s in the water, he is too distracted to think of much else, and after spending hours there, his mind goes blissfully blank from exhaustion. 

Harry asks over a spoon full of pasta they’ve prepared on their camping stove if he’s going to join them tonight. They’re going to the campfire in the dune again. 

“Yeah, sure, why not,” John shrugs. He doesn’t mind at all. 

They watch the sunset from the dune and help some French guys lighting the fire afterwards. Slowly, more people gather around the fire, and it gets dark. John sits down in the sand and opens a bottle from the sixpack of beer they’ve brought. Someone next to him is smoking weed. Gemma and two German girls are talking about getting a tattoo. He listens to them, but loses track of the conversation when he sees Harry on the other side of the campfire, saying _hi_ to one of Sherlock’s friends, Eddie. James is there as well, and a minute later, Sherlock actually arrives. 

James, Eddie and Harry sit down opposite from John. Sherlock hesitates for a moment, looking a little out of place. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of the pockets of his shorts, puts one into his mouth, lights it and sits down next to James. 

John watches them across the flames, their faces lit by the restless flaring of the campfire. 

Harry is laughing at something Eddie says, and drinking quickly, too quickly for John’s liking. She’s almost finished her third beer when a girl next to her hands her a bottle of tequila. But she shakes her head and John sighs in relief. He’d had to promise mum he’d keep an eye on her drinking. 

Eddie takes a sip of tequila, though, and hands the bottle over to James who tries it and pulls a face. James holds out the bottle to Sherlock and tilts his head in question. 

John watches Sherlock, unable to tell if he will take the tequila or not. He straightens to see Sherlock’s face properly across the fire. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but takes a long pull on his cigarette. When he looks up again, he meets John’s eyes. 

John feels as if he is set on fire. 

He has the impression he is being read, drunk in in his entirety. As if his whole life, everything about him that Sherlock can possibly _see,_ is being disassembled and then put back together again. 

Sherlock pulls on his cigarette again, but doesn’t look away. As he exhales, smoke drifts across his face for a brief moment. 

John vaguely notices James giving the bottle of tequila back to the girl sitting next to Harry, and takes another sip from his beer. It’s the last one, and then his bottles is empty. 

Sherlock is still watching him. 

Moments pass. Gemma and the Germans are still discussing tattoos. James and Eddie are still joking with Harry. People around them are getting drunk or high, are talking and laughing. 

John and Sherlock look at each other. It should feel awkward or at least tense. But it’s just exciting. 

Without ever consciously deciding on it, John slowly rises to his feet. He nods at Gemma and takes the beer she offers him, because he might need something to hold on to. And then he slowly walks around the campfire, in Sherlock’s direction. 

With every step his heart beats a little harder against his ribcage. With every step his brain is trying to come up with a good explanation why he is doing this. 

There is none. Except for the fact that he wants to get to know him. 

He walks around the fire until he’s only a feet away from Sherlock, and then even less. Sherlock’s cigarette is almost down to the filter. He throws it into the fire and looks up at John, and from so close John can see that vulnerability again, although it’s hidden beneath him acting bored and aloof, as if he isn’t taking part in any of this. 

John sits down next to Sherlock. 

He takes a deep breath and tries a casual smile. 

“Hi.” 


	3. Chapter 3

John sits next to Sherlock, there at the campfire, and he suddenly realizes he doesn't know what to say. Everything feels awkward and tense, and he can't look at Sherlock without turning sideways in a way that would feel unnatural and forced. So he stares into the flames, and then, after a moment, he decides to look across the campfire instead, right at the spot where he'd been sitting a minute before. 

He tries to think about how he could possibly talk to Sherlock. God, this doesn’t happen usually, he’s good at talking to people. It’s never this awkward. 

“You’re Sherlock, right? I’m —” he clears his throat, “I’m John.” 

“John,” Sherlock replies slowly, as if tasting his name on his tongue. As if he doesn’t know what to say himself. 

Without his cigarette, Sherlock begins to fumble around with his hands. John watches them. They’re fucking huge, but elegant, with long fingers that look like piano lessons since age five. 

John swallows, and feels stupid about it. Takes a sip of beer. 

“Do you play an instrument? Music, I mean?” he asks a moment later, because it’s as good a conversation starter as any. 

“What?” Sherlock sounds taken aback. “Why do you ask? You, _John,_ ” — he says his name in a way that conveys its absolute ordinariness, but there also is an undertone that makes it sound like, what, _praise?_ — “you’ve never played any instrument except for the tedious obligatory lessons at school. You probably went for something simple, because you’d rather spend your time playing football or rugby. You would have chosen recorder if it wasn’t so horribly primary school, so most likely the clarinet.” 

John turns to Sherlock and huffs out a small breath in surprise. He’s trying to sort out a reply, but Sherlock is already going on. 

“You’re here with your twin sister and her girlfriend, first trip abroad in ages, first trip without your parents after…” — Sherlock squints — “they’ve had their divorce three, no, two years ago. You’ve saved your money to afford this and worked during the first weeks of the holidays to earn the necessary money, and this trip is the best thing that’s happened to you in years. You’re slightly drunk, you’re supposed to enjoy yourself, you’re really not interested in music — so why do you ask me if I play _an instrument_?” 

John gapes, stunned by the rapidfire of words. When he doesn’t say anything, Sherlock’s smug and challenging expression crumbles a little. He squints his eyes again, trying to determine John’s reaction. Insecurity begins to show in his eyes, pale and intense in the firelight. He’s fidgeting a little more. 

John finally closes his mouth and opens it again, trying to force the words in his mind into a coherent sentence. 

“Because… well, I don’t know? Just wanted to make small-talk, you arsehole,” he says, and then he laughs. “That was fucking brilliant, by the way.” 

Sherlock eases up a little, and his mouth crooks into a half-smile. It’s a small smile, but it’s doing something with his face that makes John smile as well. 

“That’s not what people normally say.” 

“What do people normally say?” 

“Piss off.” 

John laughs out loud and the tension gradually falls away. 

“Did I get it right?” Sherlock asks a moment later. 

“On almost all points. Harry and I aren’t twins. She’s a year older than me.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs theatrically, “it’s never twins,” and reaches for his pack of blue _Gauloises_ again. He takes out one cigarette and is about to put them back, but then hesitates and holds the pack in John’s direction. “You want one?” 

John doesn’t smoke. He’s never found it appealing and the list of severe illnesses caused by nicotine is enough to put him off for a lifetime. 

“Yeah,” he says, and takes one of the cigarettes. He puts it between his lips and it feels foreign. He hopes he doesn’t look ridiculous. 

Sherlock puts his own cigarette into his mouth and leans in to light John’s. John doesn’t know where to look — well, he should be looking at Sherlock’s lighter, making sure that he doesn’t burn his fringe or so, bloody pay attention — but that’s the exact moment when he notices Sherlock’s lips. His heart silently skips a beat. 

They look soft, his lower lip is ridiculously full and plush. The delicate satin skin shimmers in the warm light of the campfire and John is close enough to see every fine line on their surface. There’s a pronounced dip in the middle of his upper lip. He can’t tear his eyes away. 

“You’ve got to pull, John. Inhale,” he hears, _sees_ Sherlock say, mumbling against his own cigarette, and he could kick himself for being so stupid. He inhales quickly, and stinging, bitter smoke fills his mouth, airways and lungs. Every cell on the way down into his ribcage revolts against it. He coughs for a full two minutes and his cheeks are burning with embarrassment. 

When he has wiped the tears from his eyes and realized with relief he hasn’t dropped the glowing cigarette, he looks up at Sherlock. Sherlock is dragging on his own cigarette, looking at John, and then chuckles. 

“Inhale slowly, if you’re doing it for the first time. Try not to close your lips around the cigarette completely, you’re not _sucking_ it. Leave a little space, so you inhale both fresh air and smoke at the same time. Like this.” He drags again, and John watches his lips close around the cigarette, not fully though. Sherlock exhales, and his pink tongue darts out and very briefly licks across his lips. 

John curses the universe for both his inexperience at smoking and his inability to focus on anything but Sherlock. 

Lost for anything better he could do, he eventually does pull on his cigarette, slowly, exactly the way Sherlock just told him to. It tastes disgusting, but it works much better. He still has to cough, but he can stifle the worst of it. 

“God, why do people do this?” John wheezes. There’s no use in pretending this wasn’t his first cigarette ever. 

“Helps me think,” Sherlock replies, staring into the fire. 

“Uh… okay?” 

Sherlock takes his time to pull on his cigarette, then turns his face halfway to John and smirks. 

“Just like playing the violin.” 

John laughs again. 

“Bastard.” 

The feeling of this holidays has turned a whole lot more exciting, John thinks, as he watches the flames and casts sideways glances at the boy next to him. 

Over the next twenty minutes of sitting quietly side by side, watching the group of other teens around the fire, John doesn't ask for any more cigarettes. But he wants to get to know Sherlock, wants to listen to his deep, melodic voice and so he tries to keep the conversation going. 

“Where are you from then?” John asks after another sip of beer. 

“Sussex.” 

“Ah.” 

“But I go to school in London, most of the time.” 

John laughs. “Eton?” 

“No, the other one.” 

“Harr—” 

Sherlock interrupts him and waves the whole topic off. “Oh, it’s terribly tedious. Completely overrated, really.” 

John can’t help but snort at Sherlock’s blatant understatement, but for the fraction of a second there’s a somewhat uncomfortable, even hurt look in Sherlock’s eyes that makes him understand that Sherlock doesn’t want to discuss this. No happy memories, apparently. 

“And you?” Sherlock asks instead. 

“Hampshire.” 

“Not very exciting either.” 

“About right.” 

John silently calculates the miles to London, or to Sussex, and the time it would take him to travel there. One and a half hours, probably more. 

“James and, er, Eddie? Your friends? They’re in your year?” 

“No. And yes.” Sherlock brushes a stray curl from his forehead. 

John is puzzled, and it must be showing on his face, because Sherlock looks at him and adds, rolling his eyes, “Yes, they’re in my year. No, they’re not really my friends.” 

“Then why are you spending your holidays with them?” 

“My parents are in the US, line-dancing workshop,” Sherlock explains exasperatedly, “and my other option was to stay with my insufferable brother for three weeks. They asked — although I don’t know why, actually, I don’t _do_ friends — and I agreed.” 

He says it as if it is very funny or as if it doesn’t matter to him at all, John thinks. But it doesn’t feel like that. 

They continue to sit together in silence, now that the boring topic of why they're both there has been discussed. 

They’re sitting side by side in the sand, a few inches of space between them. They shift closer when they talk and drift apart a little when they’re silent. None of it feels weird. Actually John can’t remember the last time he’s been so much at ease with someone he got to know less than a few hours ago. 

John is starting to feel the effects of the beer, just enough to make him pleasantly dizzy. He takes a handful of sand and lets it trickle slowly through his fingers. The sand is cool and soft now, the day’s heat has vanished. When all the sand is gone and his hand is empty, he takes another fistful, rubs it between his fingers until they’re dry and coated with microscopic particles of sea shells and stones, all ground to the size of dust. His fingers glitter faintly in the firelight. 

Sherlock is watching him, and John finds he doesn’t quite know what to do, how to react to Sherlock’s perceptive gaze. The silence stretches on and so he simply asks, “What you did, earlier — knowing everything about me — how did you do that? Did you ask Harry?” 

Sherlock frowns. “Who?” 

“My sister, Harry. Short for Harriet.” 

John nods at Harry across the campfire, and she waves back with her beer bottle and pulls a face, mocking him. 

“Your sister didn’t tell me anything,” Sherlock scoffs. “I observe. I see things other people don’t.” 

“Amazing,” John says before he can think twice. Sherlock’s face twitches with a smile, and with something that resembles pride. 

It’s getting late. They’re talking. Sherlock makes John laugh by deducing the other people at the campfire. John is more than fascinated and drunk enough to fake-try it himself. 

“Right. You see that French guy over there? He’s working at the campsite’s shop and currently smoking an impressive joint. He’s frustrated with his work, clearly. Still wearing his staff t-shirt even though it’s the evening, and he’s deliberately spilled wine over it.” 

“Of course he’s frustrated with his job, he’s selling ice lollies to crotchety children, booze to teenagers — illegally, of course — and soft porn magazines to elderly men. He’s surrounded by _tourists_ the whole bloody day,” Sherlock points out, snorting with laughter. 

“Yeah, he fucking is,” John grins. “Also he’s trying to hit on the Dutch girl sitting over there,” he adds, a little bolder now, and nods to his other side, where a tall blonde girl is sitting two feet away from him with her friend. “He looks in her direction all the time.” 

Sherlock huffs and counters, “Nice try, but the girl is _Danish,_ and he’s trying to hit on _you_ , because he’s looking in _your_ direction all the time. He’s working at the shop because he needs to pay for studying and he’s not actually French but Spanish, from a family of devoted Catholics, and they’ve recently stopped supporting him because they found out he’s gay.” 

John swallows. 

_Well fuck._

“Er, right, yeah,” John says, not knowing where to look, and so he looks into the fire, carefully avoiding said French-Spanish guy who works at the shop. 

“So… you have a girlfriend then?” he asks, trying to lead the conversation into a different direction. He immediately feels like an idiot. 

“Girlfriends… not really my area,” Sherlock mutters. When John sees him blush he feels like an idiot so badly he wants to bang his head against something hard. 

John wonders how he’s managed to fuck things up already. He desperately tries to think about something else to ask, something safe, and hopes that Sherlock won’t notice that he deliberately ignores his answer. 

“So. With all your… deducing, what do you want to do after you finish school?” 

Sherlock seems to be glad about this change of topic, his shoulders settle and he relaxes a little. 

“Chemistry, I think. My brother insists that I study in Cambridge, family tradition, blah blah blah.” 

“Chemistry? Yeah, that’s cool. You want to be a chemist then? A scientist?” 

Sherlock lights a cigarette, tilts his head upwards and exhales the smoke. 

“I’ve no fucking idea.” He drags on his cigarette again. “It’s just the least boring subject.” 

A moment later, Sherlock asks, “And you?” 

“I’d love to go to med school. I really want to be a doctor.” John’s voice is low when he speaks, and he’s surprised by it himself. He feels Sherlock’s gaze on him and turns to look at him. 

“Yeah, I can see that,” is all Sherlock says, and John has never felt so reassured by someone he’s told about his future plans. 

Eventually, the fire dies down, and people leave. Harry and Gemma left to go back to the camping site a while ago, holding hands. 

John reluctantly gets up and looks at Sherlock. 

“I guess I’ll head back as well,” he says, brushing sand off his shorts. 

Sherlock rises to his feet and accompanies him without saying a word. They walk along the beach for a while on their way back to the tents, and John notices Sherlock is looking at the sea, as if he’s searching for something. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” John muses, looking out at the waves and then up at the sky. Stars glisten above them and the sky seems to hang lower than he remembers it from England. It’s silent save for the waves softly rolling along the shore. “But the water is so fucking dark at night,” John adds. “Feels strange.” 

Sherlock hums in reply, but John has the impression he isn’t even listening. He lets Sherlock watch the sea. 

Finally they make their way up the steep path to the camping site. When they arrive at the bench where John likes to sit in the morning, Sherlock suddenly stops, as if he has some urgent business to complete here before he walks his way back to the tents. He stands in front of the bench and scans the shoreline or the horizon for God knows what. 

John bites his lips, watching Sherlock. He likes being here, with him. 

“Yeah,” John says eventually, after two minutes of being ignored. “’T was nice, you know. The evening.” 

Sherlock turns abruptly, and looks at him, only to lower his gaze to the ground after a moment. 

“Yes.” 

“Good night, Sherlock,” John says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he smiles awkwardly, and leaves. 

It's only once he makes it to his tent in the dark that he finally hears Sherlock. 

“Good night, John”, Sherlock says when John’s opening the zipper of his tent, a low rumble over the slow swoosh of the waves down at the beach. 

— 

John wakes in the dark. He has the feeling that he didn’t sleep very much, or very deep, for that matter. But he’s been replaying the evening in his dreams, he’s been talking to Sherlock over and over again, watched him again. He’s been buzzing with tension, with excitement. He feels like he’s smoked too much, drank too much, and the images in his mind are chasing each other. 

Finally he sits up and breathes. The air inside his tent is too hot, too stale; it makes his shirt is stick to his skin, and the sleeping bag is entangled with his legs. He searches for the half-empty plastic bottle of water, and digs through worn clothes, but he only finds a towel, his torch, his book. Finally he feels the thin plastic of the bottle, takes it and drinks and only realizes how thirsty he’s been when the bottle is empty. 

He zips open his tent and climbs outside, trying not to make any noise. He stands up, and tentatively takes a few steps until he can see the sea. He considers walking to his bench, sitting down there for a while. But somehow it’s good the way it is, standing here, between his tent and Gemma’s and Harry’s, his naked feet in the cool sand. 

He wonders what time it is, but his watch is somewhere back inside his tent. He hasn’t felt the need to wear it for days. Everybody on the camping site has gone silent, even those that spent the evening at the small bar next to the shop, chatting with the barman over Pernod and wine from Bordeaux, and the teenagers he met at the dune. He doesn’t remember if he heard them after he got back to his tent and it makes him realize how full his mind has been of other things. 

Night envelops everything — the cars parked further up, luggage and belongings still stuffed in the boots, toys and empty water bottles littering the seats and floors. Silence wraps around the light forest, the trees that sway gently in the breeze, the sea, the sand. 

It is lighter here, the night, as if the steady wind from the Atlantic prevents it from falling on the land too heavily, as if the never-sleeping sea reminded it that life goes on, constantly, at all hours. Soon, the first birds will sing their morning song, will call across the waves. 

John stands there, and watches this lighter kind of darkness. That feeling of suffocation from inside the tent is gone. He isn’t sweating anymore, and the wind has lightly taken away the thoughts that had been overwhelming him. His breathing evens out with the waves down on the shore. He stands there for a long time. 

Eventually, he tears his eyes away from the spot he’s been staring at unseeing and lets his gaze wander across what has become familiar to him over the last days. The pine trees he still can’t name, his tent, Gemma’s tent with Harry. The faint horizon across the sea, and the pale, blurry spots that must be the tents further down the forest. The path to the beach and his bench. 

Suddenly his heart beats quickly, and hard — someone’s sitting on his bench. John spots wind-ruffled dark curls, arms slung around knees, and a glowing cigarette. Sherlock’s turning his back to John, looking out at the sea. John’s heart calms down again. He smiles, and an odd brand of happiness pools in his belly. 

John watches him for another few minutes. He has got the feeling Sherlock knows he’s there, watching him. It’s like unspoken understanding. It’s just the two of them. 

When he finally crawls back into his sleeping bag, he leaves the zipper of his tent open so that the the fabric hangs down loosely in the breeze. He falls asleep to thinking that if he’d stay awake and watch the area in front of his tent, he might spot Sherlock’s naked feet walking by on the path to his tent at some point during the night. 


	4. Chapter 4

He’s moving, moving up and down with the waves, with the breath of the ocean. He’s swinging his arms and legs, paddling on the spot, keeping his head above the dark blue water. He’s breathing hard and his lungs are aching. 

He’s been swimming for a while now, he’s jumped into the water as soon as it was deep enough, dived for a few feet, and when the lack of air forced him up again, he swam. He swam as fast as he could, and as far as he dared, away from the beach, heading towards the _Banc d’Arguin_ , the sandbank a few hundred yards off the shore. 

He let the salty water wash away the sweat of the night and his faint hangover. He let it cool him after he’d woken up in a too hot tent again, still tasting last night’s cigarettes in his dry mouth. 

He’s awake, so very awake. He turns and watches the beach, small and distant, a stripe of eggshell white at the foot of the steep slope up to the camping site, the line of dark green trees perched on top. The small blue-yellow spot which must be his tent and the tiny structure underneath a tall pine — his bench. 

Sherlock had been sitting on his bench last night. John had spotted his crunched cigarette butts in the sand when he walked by this morning, on his way down to the beach for his swim. Sherlock had been looking at the sea, maybe at the exact spot where John is swimming now, somewhere between the beach and the flimsy line of the horizon. Maybe he’d been sitting there for hours. 

John’s awake, and he feels his blood rushing through his body, through his muscles, his heart, pulsing through his carotid artery. He closes his eyes for a moment, slowing down until he’s floating on the water. He takes a few deep breaths, listening to the sea and the wind. He feels carried and supported by the water, swaying him up and down with the rhythm of the waves. He feels as if the weight that his life usually puts on his shoulders and the grey weariness it’s causing him have been swept away. For a moment pure happiness beats through his heart. 

Everything is quicker, better, brighter, more intense right now. A slow wave of arousal vibrates gently through his body, like a low hum, enough to be a mere pleasant tickle in his veins, on his skin, in his groin. 

— 

John continues to feel this alive throughout the whole day. Sipping on his coffee and having a bite of breakfast after swimming with Harry and Gemma, he spots Sherlock for the first time and his stomach makes a small flip. Sherlock walks past their tents, probably on his way to take a shower or buy something to eat. He doesn’t stop to talk to John. But he nods at him, and somehow that’s enough. 

It’s still little more than the usual stuff that fills John’s time — hanging out at the beach, lying in the sand in front of the tents, strolling to the shop to get some food. Eating, sleeping, swimming, reading. Watching Sherlock when he spots him occasionally, down at the shore when he’s in the water, following his head of dark curls out on the sea. Watching him across the tents crouched over a book, reading, scribbling things down on a notepad. Earphones plugged into his ears, listening to music on his discman and smoking, lost to the world. John allows his heart beat the tiniest bit faster at the sight of him. 

Sherlock’s presence, even if only from a distance, is a landmark in John’s day. John doesn’t quite understand it, but wherever Sherlock is, from that first night at the campfire on, he’s aware of him. Even if Sherlock vanishes for hours, even if John doesn’t know where exactly he is, he’s still there. John knows he’s going to see him, some time later. It’s good, all of this, he thinks. It’s very good. 

— 

It’s later that evening that John meets Sherlock again. On unspoken agreement, John, Gemma and Harry go up to the dune, bringing a new bottle of wine and the one they’ve opened over dinner — bread, some French cheese, salad, tomatoes. Food is simple, but they choose it, pay for it and prepare it, it’s theirs. And no one cares about tomato sauce being burnt on the unpredictable camping stove or pasta that has passed _al dente_ minutes ago. It’s still delicious, all of it. 

So when John eventually walks up the vast dune with Harry to his left and Gemma to his right, making fun of each other and chasing Harry across the sand, careful not to spill any precious wine, he’s in a good mood. He’s fucking excited, in fact. The setting sun casts an orange-golden light, and makes the warm sand glow a bright rosy ochre. Where the sky changes its colour from orange to blue, it’s purple. John wants to drink it in, make it never fade, never stop. 

They greet the folks at the fire, recognizing their faces now, and even remembering some of their names. James is already there and waves at them, and Harry and Gemma sit down beside him. John doesn’t mind, he’s trying to keep an open space next to himself, in case Sherlock shows up. Just in case. 

Eddie arrives after they’ve already finished half the wine. They hand the bottle from one to the next, with James taking a sip and Eddie trying it as well. Harry laughs and get tipsy, gets touchy, sneaks her hands around Gemma’s waist and Gemma beams. She turns her head to Harry and kisses her lower lip. Eddie visibly swallows when Harry leans in and kisses back, then she smiles against Gemma’s mouth. John finally clears his throat and stares daggers at him. Eddie blushes and looks the other way. 

Suddenly someone nudges his left arm. John looks up, it’s Sherlock, and John can’t help but smile. He’s wearing an old dark blue t-shirt, the fabric thinning from being washed too often. John has the impression that the outline of every crease of his skin is visible, of every string of muscle and of every sharp bone. His dark grey jeans are faded and he’s barefoot in the cool sand. He sits down next to John and gracelessly bumps his knee against John’s elbow once more. 

At the sudden touch, John thinks this is weird, since he usually moves with an elegance almost improper for a bloke. 

He smiles at Sherlock and holds out the wine. “Want some?” 

Sherlock reads the label, frowns and takes a large sip anyways. 

“God, you can’t have paid more than 20 francs for this one,” he says indignantly as he puts down the bottle. 

“’Course not, you tit. No silver spoon up my arse, in case you haven’t noticed,” John retorts. He wants to take the bottle back, but Sherlock quickly takes another sip and smiles at him with bordeaux-blue lips. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, calmer now, when he hands him the bottle. 

It’s that deep voice. John remembers it from last night, it has sounded through his dreams and through the whole of this day, and yet the reality of it makes him choke on his own breath. 

John realizes he’s tensing up a little as he sits close to Sherlock in the sand, suddenly aware of how much he doesn’t want to fuck this up, _again._ Since he doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t say anything. He has another sip of wine to fill the silence and just when he is about to place the bottle in the sand in front of him, Sherlock takes it from his hand and drinks. 

“So you want to study medicine,” Sherlock says, glancing at John. 

“Yeah.” The fact that this plan is nothing more than a hope hurts. 

“You’ve got trouble paying for it.” 

It’s a statement, not a question. John swallows. Not the most pleasant thing when someone points out exactly how difficult your financial situation is. 

“How do you know?” 

“Your parents are divorced, you and your sister live with your mother. The state of your equipment shows that it’s been in use for years. It used to be well-kept, but it’s old enough to be gradually… decaying. I take it that most people your age would have chosen to get a new backpack, a new tent. You’re wearing cheap old H &M jeans instead of something of a higher quality, something more expensive. You’ve cut off the legs, which looks good, but it’s mainly meant to hide the fact that would be two inches too short with the legs intact.” 

John looks down at the sand, exhaling, and then looks up again, staring firmly at a piece of wood that’s slowly being reduced to embers. 

He presses his lips together, as if containing all the things he needs to say and that he still can’t find the right words for. 

“Yeah, fuck. No use denying, is there?” 

“Nope.” 

John should be embarrassed, but he has to smile at Sherlock’s strange confidence in his cleverness. Still John’s mouth tenses into a thin line when he remembers discussing med school at home. 

“You know, when I last talked about this with my mum — she knows I want to be a doctor, she’s known for ages — at some point she suggested I just become a nurse. Says it’s the same field of work, hospitals, medicine.” He huffs a frustrated laugh. “I know she’s just trying to make things work, and that she’s fucking terrified of taking a loan when she can barely pay for our livelihood.” 

“ _How am I supposed to pay a room for you, John? Books? Clothes? Food? Med school takes years. I don't see a way of raising enough money to pay for you for years,”_ she’d said. “ _Not with your father behaving the way he does.”_

“ _I could work, mum. Of course I’d find a job and fucking work,”_ he’d replied, trying to stay calm while his dream and his enthusiasm were being dismantled. 

“ _Yes, I know you would, John. But I’ve calculated it. You’d have to work too much to prepare properly for exams. You’d always have to work harder, be better, be tougher than everyone around you. I don’t want you to fight like that and lose.”_

And that had been the end of it, that time. John already knows that there will be more discussions when — when he gets back. 

“You’re considering the army,” Sherlock says into John’s silence. “Because it pays.” 

John hasn’t told anyone. He isn’t sure yet. It’s an option, yes, and he doesn’t yet know what to think of it. It’s pretty fucking strict, and he’s not sure if he’s comfortable with that. But it would be a hell of a lot better than being a nurse. 

“Yeah,” is all John says, eventually. 

“Going to play the hero and get shot at the Hindukush,” Sherlock adds, smirking. 

“Oh bloody shut up, arsehole,” John laughs and there’s no way he can express his gratitude for Sherlock saying something like this instead of some half-arsed assurance that things will surely work out if he just fights to live his dream. 

Sherlock hands him the bottle of wine and John drinks the last of it. 

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asks a few minutes later, after they’ve been sitting watching the flames in comfortable silence. 

“Er…” John isn’t sure. Yeah, he’d like to smoke with Sherlock, sharing that weird intimacy of it, and also no, he sure as hell doesn’t want to struggle through another whole cigarette right now. 

Sherlock takes one cigarette out of his pack, puts it into his mouth and lights it. John is already afraid he’s reacted too slowly, that he cocked it up because he can’t bloody make up his mind. But Sherlock pulls on his cigarette once and gives it to John. 

“We can share.” 

_This man is a fucking genius._

John nods and puts the cigarette to his lips. He tries to ignore the fact it has touched Sherlock’s lips not even ten seconds ago. He takes a drag, slowly, inhaling enough fresh air along with it so he doesn’t cough. He blows out the biting smoke. He’s getting used to this. 

Their hands touch while John gives the cigarette back. 

“You’ve got a Pink Floyd shirt. You like them?” he asks. 

“Mmmmh,” Sherlock hums. “ _Comfortably Numb_ is… good.” 

“It is, absolutely. What else do you like?” 

Sherlock is silent for a moment. He pulls on their cigarette and stretches out his hand to give it to John. 

“David Bowie. Suede, but then they’re heavily influenced by Bowie.” 

John takes the cigarette, draws and exhales the smoke. He likes this conversation, discovering someone like this. It’s been ages since he’s been talking about music with someone. He draws again and says, “Bowie’s cool. Not the _China Girl_ -stuff, though, the older songs.” 

“ _Heroes_. _Width of a Circle_ ,” Sherlock replies and takes the cigarette from John. His long fingers are cool against John’s when they touch again for a split second. 

“Right, _Heroes_. And, yeah, I like Suede, too. From time to time. What else?” 

Sherlock taps his finger on the cigarette, getting rid of the ash. It falls into the sand in front of him. 

“Show you?” He cocks an eyebrow. 

“Sure.” 

John has no idea what Sherlock is up to, but he follows him nonetheless when he gets up. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” Eddie says when they’re about to leave. “You have anything on you?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply at first, but then he nods curtly and says, “In my tent. I’ll bring it.” 

_Weed? Sherlock?_ John wonders. But as he thinks about it, he find it’s not too surprising, actually. Many people do, probably. 

Sherlock turns away from the campfire into the night, heading towards the camping site. John is right beside him. 

They finish their cigarette on the way to the camping site. The voices from the campfire are getting softer with every step they take away, and the sound of the sea is getting louder. Their breathing, in unison, as they walk, is the loudest. 

They pass John’s tent, and the one Harry and Gemma share. It’s weird to just walk by as if it wasn’t their shelter, their home for the time being. John feels like slipping into someone else’s life, just following the path to Sherlock’s tent further down under the pine trees. 

Two minutes later, Sherlock crawls inside his tent. Standing out there on his own, John feels out of place, like an intruder. And he also feels as if he’s being let in. 

A few things are scattered on the ground in front of the boys’ tents — the inevitable _Evian_ water bottles, a camping stove. Empty beer bottles, one half-filled with cigarette butts, two folding chairs. A mat in front of Sherlock’s tent, where John has seen him sit. 

And Sherlock was right. It’s not only Sherlock’s tent that has obviously been bought right before this trip, but Eddie’s and James’s as well. They all look so much newer than his. He casts a look at his own one, he can see it fairly well from over here. It’s been their tent as long as he can remember. Maybe he is outgrowing it. 

Sherlock lights a torch inside his tent and John hears him rummaging through his backpack and things. When he gets out, he’s got his discman and two CDs in his hand. As he turns towards John he takes a water bottle from the ground. John watches him. 

“Coming?” he asks John, tilting his head and already on his way to the path. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

He hurries after Sherlock. He doesn’t quite look at his tent on the way back. 

Sherlock unscrews the bottle of water and hands it to him as they walk. John slows down and drinks a few greedy gulps, suddenly realizing he’s thirsty. Water is trickling down his chin, but he hands the bottle back to Sherlock before wiping it off. 

Sherlock turns and looks at him for a moment. John wonders if he’s done something stupid, but then Sherlock just lifts one hand and wipes his thumb across John’s chin. 

John’s whole body goes still, and his heart inside his chest skips three beats at the touch of Sherlock’s thumb. His stomach feels as if John had been just lifted twenty feet into the air and is now falling, _falling,_ because he still feels the careful touch of Sherlock’s finger, smelling of cigarette smoke and wine. Butbut the moment silently passes and his heart goes back to work. John knows that his stomach won’t stop feeling upside down for the rest of the night. 

Sherlock takes the bottle from John’s hand and drinks as well. Afterwards he tries to disentangle the earphones from his discman, but it’s getting too much with the bottle in his hand. 

“Hold that,” he says, giving the bottle back to John. Sherlock finally succeeds in unraveling the cords. He opens the discman and inserts one of the CDs. They’re burnt CDs, reflecting the light with their silvery surfaces. John doesn’t even know anyone who owns a CD-burner. 

A moment later, Sherlock hands him one earphone, puts the other one into his own ear and switches on the discman. John hurries to get his earphone in place, just in time to hear the first beats of The Pixies’ _Where is my mind_. 

John smiles. He likes that song, a lot. He almost can’t stop himself from singing along, shouting the lyrics at the sea. _Where is my mind? Way out in the water, see it swimmin'!_

They walk together, closer now, because the cord connecting the two earphones and the discman isn’t very long. For the first time John realizes how much taller Sherlock is, John’s shoulder touches his arm, just where the sleeve of his t-shirt begins. Feels right, John thinks. 

Walking down the narrow path to the beach, Sherlock takes the stairs quicker than John does, and the earphone is pulled out of John’s ear. 

“Hey! Slow down a bit, will you?“ John calls out. He struggles to catch up to Sherlock down the stairs without falling. “We’re going to need to coordinate if you don’t want me to tear off your earphone,” John says as he finally reaches Sherlock. 

Sherlock stops, dramatically rolling his eyes at him, but he laughs and the moon lights his face. It lights the sea glittering beneath them. He hands the earphone back to John and life feels fucking brilliant. 

— 

They fall into step with each other and walk back to the dune and up to the campfire, and John listens to Sherlock’s music with one ear and to the sea and Sherlock’s breathing with the other. The next one is _Gimme Shelter_ , Stones. John is getting excited in the way that only listening to music can be exciting — songs he’s heard over and over on his own and now he discovers that there’s someone else who shares his love for them. 

He nods when Sherlock offers him another cigarette. They share again, and John barely notices the bitterness of the smoke. He’s glad Sherlock has brought water, his head is spinning. 

A few more people have come to the campfire when they get back. The German girls have joined Harry, Gemma, Eddie and James. Harry’s talking a mile a minute. She briefly waves her hand at John, then turns back to Gemma and the others. 

John’s grateful that they’re so busy chatting as they approach. He realizes that he doesn’t want to talk to them a lot. In fact, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now. 

_We can do our own thing,_ he thinks, and then he realizes with a jolt that he just said _we,_ in his mind. _Sherlock and I._

Before sitting down Sherlock hands Eddie a small plastic package and Eddie starts building a joint. He lights the perfectly cone-shaped joint, drags and offers it to Sherlock. Sweet, heady smoke fills the air. Sherlock shakes his head and drinks some water. 

“You don’t want it right now? Smoke weed, or whatever it is?” John asks over the music playing on the earphones. 

“Cannabis. No. You don’t either.” 

While John has got drunk in the past and probably will again in the future, he doesn’t trust any of this, neither alcohol nor drugs. His father drinks. Harry has a tendency to drink more than she can handle, and sometimes she seeks it, the loss of control, the oblivion. And John knows that feeling, if he’s honest with himself. So since alcohol occasionally proves to be tough enough, he’d decided he wouldn’t even touch the other stuff. 

“No. No, I guess I never saw the appeal,” he says, wondering if Sherlock is already deducing his reasons, the tendency towards drinking in his family. “Why do you smoke cannabis?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “To calm down. Sometimes things get—” he hesitates, and then goes on, “too much.” 

“Too much stress?” 

It takes Sherlock a moment to reply. He’s frowning, as if thinking how to phrase it correctly. 

“Not stress, not really. You’ve asked about the deductions. I observe, John. I see details. I see everything. But it isn’t something I can conveniently switch on and off. It’s there. It’s always there.” 

“And sometimes you need to switch it off,” John supplies. 

“Yes.” Sherlock sounds tired. 

“Considering you’re a genius, it’s still a fucking idiotic idea.” 

Sherlock smirks. “And you’re already talking like a doctor.” 

John looks into the fire, hiding his smile. 

— 

John loses track of what time it might be. He sits next to Sherlock, listening to his music with an earphone in his right ear. He’s close to him. 

_Why do I even notice he’s close?_ he wonders for a moment, but the next song starts. It’s Radiohead, _Creep_. John watches Sherlock moving his lips in the dim light, along with the singer’s voice. Sherlock’s carefully orchestrated aloofness, his not being part of anything, being above it all, all of it slowly slips away and makes room for a very young, very lost man. 

“Their prowess at playing the guitar is outstanding,” Sherlock says eventually, not looking at John. “I’ve arranged it for the violin.” 

John just nods, this moment feels almost too fragile for anything John could say. He’d love to hear Sherlock play _Creep_ on his violin, but he has no idea how to tell him. 

Neither of them speaks for a very long time. The fire slowly glows down to embers. John doesn’t want to get up and stop this, but he is getting tired. As is Sherlock, he’s yawning. John tugs on his shirt sleeve. He still feels the warmth of Sherlock’s skin underneath. 

“Hey.” 

When Sherlock turns to look at John, he nods in the direction of the camping site. As they walk back, John feels as if he’s never walked this way on his own, without Sherlock’s presence right beside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And since music is going to play a role in this fic now and again, here's the [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUJVuvfTNIpFVCr3-8t8LF15OP0TVxgM1) I've made for it. A million thanks to @green-violin-bow, @ennisnovember and @zigster-ao3 for discussing teen Sherlock's possible taste in music with me. I now know a) what kind of music The Smiths make and b) that I've damn well loved them for twenty years.
> 
> \---
> 
> The next update will probably not be posted until the first days of June, the writer is on a creative holiday in London. For science, you know.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes. He’s hard. 

Nothing out of the ordinary. 

It must be early. The light seeping through the fabric of the tent is still pale and John doesn’t hear anything except for the background noise of the sea and the wind. Further away some children are screaming and laughing, but their voices are already slowly moving away. On their way to the camping site’s bathrooms, probably. 

He slowly pushes the sleeping bag down, trying not to make too much noise. He curses under his breath that his sleeping bag is apparently made from the fucking loudest fabric on earth. 

His shirt is shoved up from sleeping and he lets his left hand rest on the naked, warm skin of his lower belly. He lifts his pelvis, tugs his boxers down and slowly strokes along the underside of his cock. 

He brushes circles against his frenulum, gasping as he devours the sensation, smears a thumb across the head of his cock, once, twice, three times, until it’s wet. And then he _needs_ , and he doesn’t care about slow or drawing it out. He doesn’t think at all. He wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it up and down, feeling his breath stutter and biting his lips. 

It doesn’t take very long. He enjoys the sweet point when he can barely take any more, when he’s bursting with arousal. Pleasure uncoils deep down inside him and he comes, hard. 

As he listens to his own breathing, still ragged and harsh in the silence of the morning, something flickers across his mind, like lightning flashing through the hazy fog of the last, slow waves of his orgasm. 

It’s just one word. 

“ _John.”_

In Sherlock’s voice, the first time he’d ever said his name. 

— 

He falls asleep again and wakes up later from dreams of diving in the sea. He’d been dreaming diving and diving through blue and green waters, always trying to reach the turquoise tinted sand on the ground, and then suddenly realised he hasn’t been under water at all. 

He gets up now, and takes a shower, and when he returns to the tents, Harry is holding out a cup of coffee for him. John takes it, adds some more milk from the small plastic bottle and drinks a sip. 

Instead of saying _good morning,_ Harry asks, “You started smoking, little brother?” 

“I don't really smoke.” He sits down, plants the mug in the sand next to him and cuts off a piece of baguette, spreads butter on it and a some _Bonne Maman_ raspberry jam. 

“You smoke with _him_ ,” Harry states, still chewing. 

“Sherlock. His name’s Sherlock,” Gemma supplies and something sparks up in her eyes that makes John feel like a fool. He barely understands what’s actually going on. 

“Yeah, right, Sherlock. Why?” he asks, unable to shake off this weird feeling of being mocked or tested, or both. 

“Just wondering. Just wouldn’t have thought you’d be into smoking,” Harry says lightly. 

“I’m not into smoking. T’s just—” he sips on his coffee, playing it down, “for now. Holidays. You know.” 

“Sure as hell, little brother.” 

— 

He considers to spend the morning dozing in front of his tent, but the girls have set their mind to dragging him along to the beach and after whatever that was over breakfast, he quickly gives in. 

It’s the hottest day ever since they’ve come here, it’s probably over thirty degrees already and it’s not even noon. Harry has dug out an old faded blue linen out of her backpack. They’ve put it up on a few long sticks of driftwood, creating a large makeshift sunscreen, fluttering in the breeze and casting some shadow on the three of them. 

He does doze, later, when Gemma and Harry are swimming and taking turns snorkling. He drifts off slowly, closing his eyes for just one minute when the lines of his book start blurring. He opens them again, trying to focus on the story. But it’s not long before he gives up and just enjoys basking in the warmth of the sun and the light wind on his skin, to listen to the cries of the seagulls. To the waves, rolling in as steadily as the heartbeat in his chest. As he falls asleep, he wonders if he’s hearing his name again, in Sherlock’s voice. 

— 

John feels rested when he wakes. The sea is glistening in a deeper shade of blue now, and it stretches out endlessly, waiting to be conquered. 

The ocean is warmer today or maybe he’s just getting used to it. When he jumps in, he doesn’t have to fight the onslaught of icy cold. He dives until he can’t hold his breath anymore. When he turns towards upwards again and finally resurfaces, gasping, the air tastes sweet and salty at the same time. 

There’s a sound behind him, a splash of water and a quick inhale. He turns. 

It’s Sherlock. 

John’s lungs squeeze in surprise and suddenly, he has to fight to keep his head above the water, as if his body momentarily had forgotten the order in which to move to keep on swimming. He swallows a mouthful of water, and coughs, and so it takes him a moment until he can look at Sherlock properly. 

Sherlock’s hair is plastered against his skull, and it’s longer now that it’s wet. He brushes a stray curl away from eyes. 

John laughs, he’s still surprised. 

“Hey, Sherlock, hi.” 

Sherlock spits out some seawater, just a few inches away from John. John can almost feel the sea get the tiniest bit warmer near him. 

It’s just a few fucking millilitres of seawater, mixed with even fewer millilitres of his saliva in an infinite ocean, but John can’t shake off an inappropriate feeling of intimacy, of rawness. 

Blood and seawater have a similar salinity, he thinks, and suddenly wonders what Sherlock’s spit tastes like. 

“Hi, John.” 

John desperately tries to think of something to say. 

“You’re swimming, too, then?” 

He feels like an idiot. 

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns up into a lopsided smile, and when he speaks, there’s amusement in his voice. 

“Obviously.” 

_Why the fuck I do feel like a fool when he’s the one turned up here out of nowhere?_ John thinks. This feeling of ‘Sherlock induced exasperation’ is getting familiar now. 

Sherlock is paddling on the spot. John can’t help noticing that his shoulders, barely covered by water, are a little paler than his face. John spots some freckles there, just a few, as if they were strewn across the light skin. But then Sherlock looks away and out at the sandbank instead, and John feels as if he’s slipping through his hands. 

“Want to swim for a bit?” John asks quickly, trying to get him back, and still feeling like an idiot. He blinks when Sherlock turns to him and their eyes meet. He wipes saltwater from his eyes, just to do something. 

“Alright,” Sherlock says. His body is a blur of white skin in the water. John tries to catch a glance at the muscles on his upper arms, but looks back at Sherlock’s eyes almost instantly, he doesn’t want to be caught staring. Droplets of seawater cling to Sherlock’s lashes. John turns his head, faces the sea, takes a deep breath and starts swimming. 

He swims as fast as he can, fighting the nervousness. Sherlock follows him immediately. He’s as quick as John with his bloody long arms and legs, and he’s really fit in spite of his smoking. 

They only stop swimming once they’re both out of breath. John isn’t nearly back to a normal heart rate when Sherlock dives under the water, vanishing into the blue. 

John groans and dives right after him. The salty water stings his eyes, and all he can see is a swirl of blue and flashes of light and dark, of skin and hair and swimming trunks. He moves as fast as he can and his muscles ache from the strain, but he finally catches up with Sherlock. 

When John’s lungs feel as if they’re about to explode, Sherlock dives up again. John reaches the surface, almost bumping into Sherlock. They’re both panting, breathing hard. He could touch Sherlock if he stretched out his hand. He has to take care that he doesn’t, by accident, though. 

He glances at Sherlock again and meets his eyes, a sliver of green-grey and brimming with an intensity John can’t fathom. He’s got beautiful eyes. John swallows against his dry throat that feels like sand from breathing too hard in too little time. He holds Sherlock’s gaze a fraction too long, and when unease, nervousness and a hint of excitement start pooling in his stomach, it’s Sherlock who turns away. John wonders if the slight pink on Sherlock’s cheeks is from sunburn, or exhaustion, a faint blush, or even all of the three. 

“I — I’ll head back to the beach,” Sherlock says eventually. 

“Yeah, right, good idea,” John manages. And he adds, he doesn’t even know why, “See you later?” 

Sherlock looks at him, and smiles in an almost shy manner. 

“See you later.” 

Sherlock turns and swims back to the shore. 

John grins like an idiot, while one part of his mind keeps pondering about the question whether it has been coincidence or a plan of Sherlock’s to show up right next to him like that. He’s got the feeling he won’t find the answer anytime soon. 

John watches him swim back to the beach, getting smaller and smaller in the distance. He watches him as he emerges from the sea, blue swimming trunks sitting low on his slim hips, his shoulders, his wet curls almost black. Sherlock walks along the beach back to where James and Eddie are sitting, and John can barely make him out against the blinding off-white sand. When Sherlock lies down on his towel, John loses sight of him. 

He closes his eyes and lets his body sink down into the sea, floating weightlessly towards the sea floor. He needs to get away from the surface, from the sun and from the noise for just as long as he can hold his breath. He wants to preserve what has just happened, being there with Sherlock, and no one else around. He simultaneously wants to stop thinking about it. In a weird way it’s suddenly too much for him, he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. He usually isn’t effected this much by meeting someone. 

He feels a cool current under his feet and lets himself descend even further, feeling the cold on his skin. He curls up into a fetal position when he’s almost at the bottom, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He keeps completely still and starts to drift sideways. He’s deep down underwater, far away from everything. It’s calm down here, silent and cold. 

But the cold is getting nowhere near the core of his body, near his beating heart, there’s far too much energy, too much life in him. He smiles, first with his mouth closed, and then he opens it in a genuine smile, tasting the salty water. It’s not too much anymore, this, meeting Sherlock, these holidays. 

He bursts into motion, heading towards the surface with a few powerful strokes of his legs. He swims towards the light, and the water up there is ridiculously warm. He tastes it again on his tongue, salty like blood, and alive with myriads of creatures in it, spits it out and swims back towards his own spot at the beach. 

— 

John reads his crime novel while he rests on his towel in the blue shade of the linen. Harry is lying next to him. When Gemma leaves to go up to their tents and get some more water and something to eat, Harry turns and starts pinching John. 

“Stop that,” John mutters, not looking up from his book. She’s done that ever since they were little, pinched him when she was bored or wanted to talk. 

She doesn’t stop, and pinches him again. 

“Ouch,” he says, but keeps reading, and, after the third pinch, “What is it?” 

“What’s on your mind, Johnny?” 

“What? My book, Harry.” 

“And when you’re not reading?” 

“I am reading.” 

“You’re not reading all the time.” She pinches him again, a little gentler. “You swim, and you talk, and you drink, and you sit at the fire… so. What’s on your mind, then?” 

He puts his book face-down on his towel and looks at her. Her short hair is blonder now, bleached by the sun and the seawater, and her skin has taken on a golden tan. Her eyes are more grey than blue, lighter than his, and they’re shining. She looks good, a lot happier than John has ever seen her. And she looks inquisitive. 

John tilts his head. “What should be on my mind?” 

“Just asking.” 

“What’s on your mind then?” 

She raises her eyebrows and rolls on her back, lifts one arm and lets it rest above her head. 

“Gemma’s on my mind. I’m in love.” 

John smiles. “You’re happy then?” 

“Happy as fuck. She’s amazing.” She turns her head to look at John. “She’s going to move to Portsmouth as well, in September.” 

It’s strange to think about that, living in a house without Harry once she moves out after the holidays. Without her noise and her nosiness. He’ll miss her. 

“You’re going to share a flat?” 

“Yeah, we want to. Haven’t told mum yet.” Her mouth tenses slightly, and there’s something sad in her voice. John knows how Harry’s sadness usually turns into rebellion. And it’s not always doing her any good. He watches her, lying next to him and slightly furrowing her brow. He gently nudges her forearm. It’s his reply to her pinches, always has been. 

“She’ll get used to it, Harry.” 

Harry looks at him for a moment before she speaks and her eyes darken. “You really think so?” 

He’s sure their mum would be actually okay with Harry being gay. If she’d have relief from her stress of too little money and too much work for just ten minutes, she’d get around her reservations and the worries she might have. “Yeah.” 

“She would for you, too, you know?” Harry says, still sounding serious. 

John is puzzled. “How d’you mean?” 

She smiles, first at him, and then at something behind him. John turns his head to see what she’s gazing at. Gemma’s coming back, with two water bottles on one arm and a bag with baguettes on the other. 

“Nothing, little brother. Anyway, being in love is great, you should try it, you know?” 

— 

John leaves the beach in the late afternoon, when he starts feeling exhausted from the sun and the heat and needs some proper shade for a while. In the hot spray of the shower, he scrubs the salt off his skin and wonders how warm water and soap can feel so amazing after he’s basically been in the water all day. 

He walks up to the shop afterwards, nodding friendly but awkwardly at the Spanish guy behind the counter. He buys some food for the evening, pasta, a tin of tuna, tomatoes and some wine, although he decides not to take the cheapest available this time. The radio at the bar plays annoying top ten songs that John tries to ignore. He hopes that Sherlock will bring his discman again tonight. He smiles with disbelief when he realises how quickly he got used to spending the evenings with Sherlock. 

After he’s put the plastic bags into his tent, he takes his book, all dog-eared and crinkled where it got wet and dried again, and walks the few steps over to his bench. It’s warm here, but shady and the breeze is perfect. Harry and Gemma are still out on the sea, Harry’s pink diving mask and snorkle are easy to spot when they’re not underwater. 

John automatically starts looking for Sherlock. He easily finds James sitting on his towel at the beach, talking to a girl John doesn’t know. He remembers seeing Eddie in front of their tents before he left to take a shower earlier. 

Finally he sees him, further up the beach in the direction of the _Dune de Pyla_. He’s walking along the beach with his feet in the water, wearing shorts, but no t-shirt. John wishes he’d brought binoculars to see him better, but he recognizes Sherlock’s gait, the shape of his body, his dark-brown curls. He has to think of the freckles on his shoulders. 

Sherlock is looking out at the sea while he’s walking, and sometimes he stops, bows down and takes some seawater into his hands to have a close look at it. He takes something — a magnifying glass? John can’t quite tell from the distance — out of his pocket and uses it to carefully scan the water in his hand. At the point where Sherlock puts his lips to his hand and tastes the water, John realizes he’s staring at him in wonder, squinting his eyes and his mouth open. 

He closes his mouth and leans back against the bench. He takes up his book, opens it and tries his best to read a few pages, watching Sherlock in between. 

He turns the page to start a new chapter when Gemma and Harry come up the path from the beach. 

“Hey Johnny,” Harry says and dramatically smacks a kiss on his cheek, dripping salty water all over him, “could you prepare dinner? We need to have a shower. And we’re absolutely starving!” 

Before he can reply, Harry takes Gemma’s hand and drags her along to hang up the wet, sandy towels on the washing line next to their tent. Gemma laughs and leans towards Harry, saying something in a low voice. 

“Sure, Harry,” John murmurs to himself. 

— 

He chops the tomatoes into small pieces, mixes them with the tuna and a bit of olive oil and adds some salt and pepper. The pasta needs a few more minutes on the camping stove, maybe three. He still hasn’t found his watch and couldn’t check the time. 

When he looks up from the pot, Sherlock is standing just a few feet away, on the path to his tent. He’s stopped, and is watching John now as if he was unsure what to do. He’s wearing his shirt again, but he looks like someone who’s spent all day in the sun — wind-ruffled hair, a little sweaty and a fine dusting of sand all over his clothes. The ridge of his nose is slightly red. 

“Hey,” John says, feeling a smile spreading on his face. And without thinking about it, he adds, “You want to have dinner with us?” 

Sherlock seems to be positively surprised. “I’m not hungry,” he says quickly. 

“Fuck it, you’ve been at the beach all day. Everybody’s hungry after that. Come and eat something.” 

John can barely stop himself from patting the spot in the sand to his left. Sherlock hesitates for a moment, but then he’s coming over without further invitation. 

He sits down next to John. There’s a little more space between them than there was last night at the fire, but then there’s no headphones cord connecting them, and there’s still the bright light of the day. 

“Looks good,” Sherlock says when he eyes the bowl with tomatoes and tuna. 

“You like tuna?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply and sneaks a small piece of tuna out with his fingers. He puts it into his mouth, hums in appreciation and licks his fingers, coated in olive oil. 

John’s stomach does that thing again, the same thing it did last night. Something hot and maddening is released into his blood stream, he’s smiling and feels like a fool, not even understanding what is making him so happy. 

— 

Harry and Gemma return with wet and combed hair, smelling of shower gel and shampoo. Harry briefly raises her eyebrows when she finds Sherlock sitting in front of John’s tent. 

“Oh, hello, Sherlock,” she says and carries on as usual. “Hand me a plate?” 

Sherlock does, and he hands Gemma one as well. They sit together and have pasta, tomatoes and tuna and some wine. 

It’s actually quite nice. Sherlock doesn’t say very much, but he eats at least a third of the pasta and John wonders when he’s last taken his time to eat properly. He always has to look away when Sherlock licks his fingers just in order to keep a straight face in front of his sister. 

Having Sherlock there re-establishes some balance John didn’t know he was missing. He doesn’t feel like the third wheel for once. And somehow it’s nice to have Sherlock nudge his side before he wordlessly hands him the bottle of wine. 

Those touches. Sherlock does that, sometimes. John doesn’t know when it started, maybe he’s been doing that all the time. He can picture all too clearly what Harry would say about that and thinks about a good reply. _I don’t mind. It feels — good, yeah, good. Right? You feel good when a friend touches you. That’s it. A friend. Sherlock is… my friend, now. Maybe. Who the fuck cares, Harry?_

“John? You want some more pasta?” John looks at Gemma, realizing she’s been talking to him while he was lost in thought. 

“No, er, thanks. I’m good.” He clears his throat. 

Sherlock is watching him. He noticed. 

“Right, if everybody’s finished we’ll go and do the dishes, since you’ve cooked, John. Meet later at the dune?” Harry asks as she packs their plates and forks, the pot and the green bottle of washing up liquid, about to leave for the public sinks next to the bathrooms. 

John doesn’t dare look at Sherlock. 

“Okay, see you then, boys,” Harry says, and she’s got that fucking light tone to her voice again. 

John’s heart is beating far too quickly to react properly, he tries a half-hearted nod, understanding too late that he must look like an idiot. He considers having a sip of wine, but with the way he’s feeling now, he’ll push over the bottle. 

And then Harry’s gone. And somehow, things are fully back to being awkward again. 

He takes a deep breath, as silently as he can, trying to hide it from Sherlock. He casts him a sideways glance and finds him digging in his shorts pockets. 

“I’ll just go and get my cigarettes,” Sherlock murmurs, and he isn’t quite looking at John either when he rises. And then he’s gone. 

John exhales. 

_What the hell is wrong today?_

Sherlock comes back a few minutes later, wearing a fresh t-shirt and smelling faintly of deodorant, the pack of _Gauloises_ in one hand and his discman in the other. 

Music. Cigarettes. This is familiar territory now. 

Sherlock lets himself drop into the sand next to John, takes a cigarette out and lights it. He drags and exhales, slowly. John would love to turn his head and watch him. But somehow both of them fix their eyes at the sun setting over the sea. 

The beach is almost empty save for a few people packing their towels. One thing John still can hardly believe even though he’s now spent almost a week here, is the vastness of the sky. In comparison to the huge, borderless blue above them even the dune feels small. Everything seems to be open, everything seems to be possible. 

Sherlock hands him the cigarette, his shoulder touching John’s as he half-turns towards him, still not meeting his eyes. 

John puts it to his lips, listens to the glow sizzling as he drags. The smoke still tastes bitter in his mouth, but it’s less revolting. It mixes with the taste of the wine, with the feeling of Sherlock sitting next to him, with the salty breeze from the sea and the smell of the dry, warm sand under his feet. 

_Is this only a holiday thing, smoking?_ he wonders.It’s hard to think of England, of home, or of going back to school. He can’t picture himself buying cigarettes there, smoking in the hidden corners of the schoolyard. 

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock rumbles. 

“What?” 

Sherlock reaches out and takes the cigarette from John’s hand. 

“You’re thinking. I can hear it. Stop.” 

“And why should I?” 

“Because you’re musing about whether or not you will smoke when you get back. You won’t. So stop thinking about being back in England, you’re getting the whole beach down.” 

John shakes his head, unable to believe that this same man for some fucking reason made his heart beat faster just a couple of minutes ago. In reality, he’s nothing but bloody infuriating. And, John has to admit, that feels much less alarming than the alternative. 

“Arsehole,” John says, takes the bottle of wine and drinks. He licks his lips after he’s put it back down. There isn’t much left, they’ve had more than usual today. 

Sherlock pulls on the cigarette and now John looks, because fuck it, what’s going to happen? 

Nothing happens. It’s Sherlock, dragging on their cigarette and blowing out the smoke through parted lips a heartbeat later, his head tilted back and his eyes slightly closed. The sun, deep and orange and already touching the horizon, makes his hair glisten, adds a hint of ginger to his brown curls. John can see the fine hair on his cheekbones, up there where he doesn’t shave. The tiny white hair you can barely even feel when touching, but that still make the skin soft and sensitive. As if John would even care. 

When the sun has set, and they’ve finished their cigarette, they get up. John takes the bottle of wine and looks at it, there’s hardly much more than one sip left. He offers it to Sherlock who looks at it with raised eyebrows and drinks the last of it. They put the empty bottle down next to John’s tent and when John spots the second one he bought earlier, he takes it without much thinking, as well as the half-finished water bottle next to it. 

Sherlock hands him one earphone again as they walk down the steep path to the beach. He switches his discman on, skips a number of songs until Iggy Pop’s _The Passenger_ starts playing. Like last night they’re walking close enough that their shoulders touch from time to time, and tonight, they easily fall into step with each other. Whatever is left of John’s exasperation is vanishing with the quick beats of the song. 

_I see the stars come out of the sky,_ John hums along, _You know it looks so good tonight._

— 

“Why don’t you like the sea at night?” Sherlock asks, later at the campfire, when they’re half-way through the new bottle of wine. They don’t share it with anyone else tonight, Gemma and Harry are sitting a few feet away from them, next to the Germans. James and Eddie are flirting with two French girls that arrived earlier that day. Sherlock sounds a little drunk. He keeps bumping into John when he talks. John doesn’t mind. 

“Never said I didn’t like the sea at night,” John replies. 

“Oh you did. You said: ‘But the water is so fucking dark at night. Feels strange,’” Sherlock quotes, speaking in a slow and punctuated manner as if he was explaining something to a particularly daft, stubborn person. 

“Didn’t think you’d even heard what I said,” John says incredulously, taking another sip from the bottle. He’s a bit drunk, too. 

“Of course I heard you. So, what is it about dark water?” 

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I mean you’ve been at the sea at night, right? You can barely even see it. T’s just _there_ , making a fuckload of noise and once you get close enough to properly see it, it’s pitch black and making even more noise. Definitely feels weird.” 

“You’re scared then? Fascinating.” 

“I’m not scared. It’s just — weird. Strange. Bit intimidating, yeah. I — I can’t fathom it, you know?” 

“And you’re intimidated by things you can’t fathom?” 

“What? I don’t know. Maybe at first. Aren’t you?” 

Sherlock tilts his head and crunches his nose. “No.” 

“No?” 

“No. I’m curious. And actually—” Sherlock says, slurring the words ever so slightly, “I don’t think you’re too initimidated, either. You do like a bit of danger.” 

Before John can say anything in reply, Sherlock asks, “Cigarette?” and digs the crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jeans pocket. 

“Ah, hell yes,” John says because _why not._

Sherlock takes a cigarette out, holds it gently in his fingers, and guides it between John’s lips with a snort of laughter. 

John is too startled to even move. When Sherlock leans in to light it, all John does is trying to focus on smoking, and only on smoking. He pulls and, after a moment, turns his head to exhale and not to blow the smoke into Sherlock’s face. 

”You’re getting better at it,” Sherlock states, eyeing him with amusement and a hint of mischief glittering in his eyes. He brushes a curl off his face. 

Sherlock is intoxicating like this. John can see in the firelight that Sherlock’s skin has taken on a light bronze tan, making the green of his eyes more vibrant, more intense. John is barely able to look him in the eye anymore. Now he doesn’t only notice the fine hair on his skin, but the faint scattering of freckles on the bridge of Sherlock’s nose and above his eyebrows, on the tender, delicate skin right under his eyes. He’s still light-skinned and pale compared to those who spend every free hour in the sun, but he looks like _summer_ now. John clears his throat and forces himself to answer. 

“I honestly doubt that’s an improvement.” 

Sherlock takes the cigarette from John’s fingers and puts it to his own lips. He’s smiling as he smokes. Suddenly John understands that apparently, it is _he_ who made Sherlock smile. And he can’t even fathom why, or how. 

The next song starts in their earphones, playing in their heads. It’s Iggy Pop again and John bites his lips to keep his foolish grin at bay. 

_And everything was made for you and me_  
_All of it was made for you and me_  
_'Cause it just belongs to you and me._  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iggy Pop. The Passenger. Writing this chapter involved a lot of dancing in the kitchen.


	6. Chapter 6

John wakes with a groan. And a hangover. And the urge to piss. 

He peels out of his sleeping bag and carefully climbs out of his tent. A headache appears to be lurking somewhere inside his skull. If he doesn’t stir it too much, it might let him move without punishment. 

The sun hasn’t risen yet, it’s those pale morning hours when even summer nights are chilly. The cool air smells of the forest, of salt and the sea in that intense way it does only in the early morning. Slowly he takes a deep breath. It’s bliss after the sticky warmth of his tent. 

He walks towards the bathroom houses, considers pissing behind a tree more than once, but still, eventually makes it all the way to use the toilets. 

When he gets back to his tent, he feels as if he hadn’t even properly opened his eyes while being outside. He greedily drinks from his water bottle and slumps down on top of his sleeping bag, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He pulls the sleeping bag back over his shoulders, trying to find some warmth and comfort inside, and thinks of last night. 

He doesn’t know what time it had been when he and Sherlock had left the campfire. They both must have been pretty drunk. After their wine was gone, somebody offered another bottle, still more than half filled, and somehow they’d kept that one, too, and drank it all. His memories are incoherent, either from alcohol or from the excitement of the night. He can’t quite tell. 

He does remember that he’d been glad the batteries of Sherlock’s discman had died at some point. He wouldn’t have known how to walk so close to Sherlock without stumbling into him all the time, if they’d been attached to each other by the short cord of the earphones. They’d walked down the dune in the darkness, each on his own, drifting a few steps apart and then coming closer again, tripping, kicking sand. Half-running whenever they threatened to lose their balance. They didn’t talk except for some breathless giggling on the way down the dune. It had been giggling, hadn’t it? It had been breathless. 

But their closeness and easiness also has the tendency to crumble to dust at the most inconvenient times. John cringes as he remembers how they’d been about to say good-bye in front of his tent, and everything had been back to awkward again. They’d stood in front of each other, each of them searching the other’s eyes and looking away quickly when their gazes met. They’d looked out at the sea instead, at the other tents. At the discman in Sherlock’s hand. At the ground in front of their feet. Neither of them had taken the first step away from the other, apparently neither of them had known what an appropriate good-bye should be, now. 

Suddenly John had realized — and actually laughed out loud at himself, but then he’d been drunk, really drunk — that this was Sherlock, and not some girl he was trying to coax into snogging at her parents’ front door at night. _It’s just him! It’s just_ him, _for God’s sakes._

“G’night, Sherlock,” he’d finally said, still giggling, and turned to crawl into his tent. 

“Night,” Sherlock had replied. He’d sounded confused. 

Thinking about it now, John has no idea if Sherlock had gone to his own tent right then or if he’d sat on John’s bench, watching the sea, like he sometimes does at night. 

Now that last night’s alcohol and the giddiness are gone from his system, it’s just the awkwardness that remains. And he’s feeling ashamed, for making Sherlock feel confused, for letting him stand there, in front of John’s tent. It’s both gnawing on his insides and he has no idea of how to deal with any of this. 

He groans once more, reaches for the bottle, gulps down some water and falls asleep. 

It might be an hour later when John wakes again, and now, the tent feels different. He’s sweating, it’s far too hot already. The sun must be up in the sky, burning down on the withering fabric of his tent, colouring everything on the inside in bright blues and yellows. If he doesn’t move too much, his headache is bearable. 

And he’s hard. He hears voices outside, some people he doesn’t know are talking. He’s desperate to get off and so he ignores everything outside of his tent as well as he can. He’s lying on top of his sleeping bag, he must have kicked it off once it started getting hotter in the tent. He nearly shivers at the touch of his own hand and tries to focus on the sensation, on the arousal building inside him. He closes his eyes, but there are no pictures coming in his mind. None that he’d dare to look at. 

_Christ, it’s good,_ he thinks and after a few moments of rough strokes he comes with one long, shaky exhale, biting his lips. 

His heart is still pounding violently against his heaving chest when he hears Sherlock’s deep voice outside. 

“Morning.” 

John’s stomach flips in alarm, making him feel slightly nauseous again. He hopes he’s been as silent as he thinks. He turns on his side, hissing at the rustling fabric of his sleeping bag, and tries to find an old t-shirt, a towel, _anything_ to clean himself up with. 

“Hey Sherlock. Come to have breakfast with us?” Gemma asks in reply. 

_Oh my fucking God, Gemma’s there as well!_

“Breakfast? No.” Sherlock’s voice sounds even deeper than usual, like he’s woken up only minutes ago. John’s headache is violently throbbing against his skull. 

“I’ve made coffee. Have some. And if you won’t eat anything, just don’t smoke while we’re eating, okay?” 

John wonders how the buggering fuck he didn’t hear her making coffee and preparing breakfast. He prays Sherlock will just say _no_ , and _leave_. There’s no fucking way John can get out of his tent without Sherlock taking one single look at him, reading him like an open book and knowing that he got off not even two minutes before. He is not ready to face that. He buries his face in the messy sleeping bag. Hiding until he dies might be an acceptable option. 

He can’t tell what happens outside of his tent, for an interminable thirty seconds there’s just the clattering of their plates and mugs, of spoons and knives and the noise of plastic bags being opened, emptied, pushed aside. 

“There you go. Need some milk?” John hears Gemma say. 

“No. Black, two sugars, please,” Sherlock says. 

“Don’t have any. — Hey, Harry! Hurry up, coffee’s ready.” 

John groans. 

Sherlock drinks a mug of coffee with Gemma and Harry, or at least John suspects he does, because after a couple of moments, Sherlock says, “Thanks. That was… surprisingly good.” 

“Even without the sugar?” Gemma asks, and John can hear the smirk in her voice. 

“Even without the sugar.” Sherlock pauses. John can picture him standing between their tents. He sounds so fucking close. “Right. I’ll — I’ll go now.” 

“You don’t want to wait for John? He doesn’t sleep this long usually. He’ll probably be up any minute now,” Harry says, yawning. 

“No,” is all Sherlock replies. John hears his steps, bare feet soft against the sandy ground. And then he’s gone. For all the mortification John felt only moments ago, he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed now. 

John forces himself to wait for a few more minutes after Sherlock left. He crawls out of his tent, nods at Gemma and Harry and heads for the bathroom, in desperate need of a shower and a shave. He has a cup of lukewarm leftover coffee afterwards. There’s a small puddle of coffee at the bottom of his mug, already drying on the edges. Sherlock drank from it. 

He’d love to escape thinking today. He doesn’t want to think at all. So he tries to sleep as much as he can, and when he’s done dozing and napping, he swims. He swims a lot. Swimming is good, it’s exhausting. It makes him feel the freedom of this summer, and every single cell of his body. The water feels fantastic around him. The top layers of the water have been warmed by the string of hot days they’ve had, but it’s cold underneath, cold and tempting and a bit dangerous. He dives a lot. 

He spots Sherlock once from afar, walking along the sealine in the glistening sun like he did yesterday, wearing his sunglasses, a t-shirt and swimming trunks. John waves at him when Sherlock turns his head in John’s direction. Sherlock nods back, and there’s no person on earth John is ever going to admit to how happy this makes him. And how much it rekindles the confusion that has been growing in his gut for the past few days. The confusion that is quickly getting to be too much to ignore — or to think about. 

But apart from that the day passes like one long, tranquil moment, in that quality of time where he can’t make out single minutes or quarters of an hour. Everything feels bright and sunny and tired and hungover when he comes to the beach in the late morning, and it’s all still bright and sunny and tired and hungover when he leaves. The ever-repeating sound of the waves rolling in lazily erases his sense of time, and he doesn’t even fight it anymore. He’s grateful for the blur, for how much he gets lost along with the seconds that tick into hours. He doesn’t know what time it is when he goes back up to their tents, with sunburnt shoulders and heated skin. 

He only realizes how hungry he is after the second shower he takes that day. He puts the tap on cooler water than usual and lets it soothe his reddened skin, devouring the softness of his shampoo’s foam as he washes dried salt from his hair. He curses the lack of privacy in the shower and ignores the lust that is once again tickling under his skin. He keeps buzzing with it, and allows it to make him feel light-headed and high on life. 

After the shower he walks to the shop to buy a few things they’ve run out of, and then orders chips at the restaurant; he’s starving. He feels the gaze of the Spanish guy across the shop’s counter resting on him. When he finally dares to look up, the man is only smiling at him, like he’d smile at anyone. 

John smiles back, and when he’s finished eating he nods at him, saying, “See you around, yeah?” 

“See you around,” the man replies with a friendly tilt of his head, his Spanish accent unmistakable even in the few words he says. 

— 

Harry and Gemma come up from the beach later, after John has been lounging on his bench for a while, bringing his book but not touching it once. He’s watched the beach instead while he dug his feet into the sand and felt the cool tiny grains trickle down between his toes. They prepare dinner together, it’s pasta again, with a jar of vegetable sauce John bought earlier. 

“I’ve asked Sherlock if he wants to have dinner with us again,” Harry says when the pasta is almost ready. 

“Right,” John says, because he doesn’t have any idea what else to say. 

“Right,” Harry says, smiling at him. John sees the challenge, that unspoken something lighting up her eyes and he makes a gesture of throwing a plate at her. 

“Oh stop it, will you?” he says, not knowing what he’s actually feeling so embarrassed about. 

“I’m not doing anything! Am I doing anything, Gemma?” 

“Not at all, babe. You’ve never done anything. In your whole life,” Gemma says, dead-serious, then leans in and kisses her for such a long time that John finally turns away, cursing them both. 

Sherlock shows up only moments later. He’s showered, and his skin looks the same way John’s does whenever he looks at himself in the mirror at the showers. A bit redder than usual, a bit more tanned than usual. Sherlock runs his fingers through his wet curls, brushes them out of his face and glances at John, only to look away an instant later. 

_Fuck, he’s shy tonight,_ John realizes, and wants to ease the tension radiating from Sherlock without having any idea how. The mere fact that Sherlock is shy and probably nervous is getting under John’s skin, much more than he’d ever expected. 

“Hey, Sherlock, dinner’s just ready,” Harry says, saving him. “Sit down.” 

Dinner goes well. If _well_ means that they’re not really looking at each other, and if _well_ also means that Sherlock barely eats three forkfuls of pasta while John actually doesn’t feel like eating much, either. If _well_ means that Harry and Gemma manhandle both of them through the conversation and prove to be much more sensitive than John would have expected. If _well_ includes John’s wildly beating heart. 

“Sure you’re good, Sherlock?” Gemma asks when she and Harry have finished eating for a while, when John has pointed out that he isn’t going to have any more, either. 

“Yes. Not hungry,” Sherlock says, and somehow manages to smile at Gemma. It looks so weirdly fake that John has to look the other way to hide his grin. 

When Sherlock wants to hand her his plate, Harry says, “Oh no, you can keep it. You two are doing the dishes tonight. It was our turn last night.” 

“Yeah, after you made _me_ cook,” John protests, but he knows full well it’s futile. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get it over with.” 

He puts the dishes, the pots and the forks into the plastic box they use for washing, throws in the washing up liquid, a towel and a sponge and gets up. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but follows him. 

“We decided to leave the dirty dishes for the next morning the first night,” John says when they’re on their way to the sinks. “Bad idea. Everything was covered with ants the next day.” 

“I know. I wanted to experiment on what they prefer — sugar or meat — but Eddie and James refused to let me use their plates and some of our food,” Sherlock says. “Shame. But I’m 92% sure it would have been sugar anyway.” 

“You’re mad,” John laughs. 

“Maybe.” 

John can tell Sherlock’s smiling as well. Without looking at him. 

— 

Harry and Gemma are sitting in front of their tents and sharing a bottle of wine as John and Sherlock walk back down the street, carrying the box filled with clean dishes. As they approach their tents, John sees how Gemma runs her finger across Harry’s nape, over her short hair there. 

Such a gentle gesture, he thinks, and suddenly misses being this close to someone. He hasn’t missed it in ages. 

They sit down next to the girls and Harry hands John the wine. He looks her in the eyes while he takes it, trying to ask, _Go easy on the alcohol, will you?_

Somehow she seems to understand, gives the smallest nod and a reassuring smile. 

He takes just a small sip from the bottle, showing Harry that he, too, isn’t going to overdo it tonight. When he looks at her again, she tilts her head in Sherlock’s direction, raising her eyebrows in question. 

John almost blurts out, _Sorry, what?_ and things get too complicated for wordless communication, even for the two of them. Harry grins, raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, making unmistakably clear that John’s the world’s biggest idiot. He doesn’t even know what he’s done wrong now. 

“Can I have a sip as well?” Gemma asks, breaking the secret and somewhat stuck exchange between Harry and John. 

John blushes and reaches out to hand her the wine, muttering “Yeah, sure,” under his breath. He runs a hand through his hair, a little lost. 

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asks. 

“Yes, please.” John is grateful for his intervention, but the next moment he wonders if Sherlock might put the cigarette between John’s lips again, fueling whatever Harry and Gemma are going on about. But Sherlock doesn’t, and John is even more grateful. Sherlock lights the cigarette, drags and hands it to John. 

He inhales the smoke and feels calmness spreading through his body. The cigarette is perfect. 

He’s sitting in the sand, cross-legged and barefoot. His knee is leaning against Sherlock’s, he didn’t notice before. Sherlock’s knee is larger, bonier. But John’s got a bit more muscles, years of rugby training are showing. There’s fine golden hair on his leg, and fine dark on Sherlock’s. Looks good together, John thinks. 

He looks at the cigarette in his hand, pulls once again, and, without thinking, he lies down on his back and exhales the smoke. 

There’s a low breeze, it’s fucking summer, and for all the fucking weirdness today, it’s a fucking lovely night. He looks at the sky, bright blue and infinite above them, at a few single twigs from the treetops of the pines, swaying with the wind. For a moment he tries to grasp that he’s looking out at space right now, that’s there’s actually no _above_ and no _below,_ and vertigo is creeping like excitement through his veins. 

He closes his eyes, feels the sand under his back, cool, and soft, and firm at the same time. He feels the warmth where he touches Sherlock’s knee, grounding him, filling him with life. There’s an actual living human being sitting next to him, someone who chooses to let his knee touch John’s. 

Or at least he chooses not to pull away, John thinks smiling at himself and at the sky. How weird life is. 

It’s not that he doesn’t have friends, he does. Good ones, too. But not like this. No one’s ever got so close to him in such a short span of time, it’s never got this intense, this… _whatever it is._

Sherlock turns to take the cigarette, but he doesn’t find John where he’s just been sitting and looks down, searching. When he sees John lying next to him, his eyes widen with a smile, green eyes sparkling. John smiles back. He has indeed found a friend. 

They finish their cigarette, just like that. John lying on the sand, and Sherlock is sitting up next to him. They’re resting their knees against each other. Handing over the cigarette when they’ve dragged. 

The feeling of these holidays is having Sherlock beside me, John thinks, gazing at the stars appearing with a distant shimmer in the evening skies. 

— 

“Let’s go up to the dune, what do you think?” Harry stretches. 

Gemma stands up and crawls into her tent, searching for something inside her backpack. When she gets back out, she’s got an old compact camera in her hand. 

“Still got a couple of pictures left on this camera roll. Thought I’d take it to the campfire,” she explains. She’d taken a number of pictures already during their trip, mostly of the sea, the beach and the sunset. She’d asked John to take a few of her and Harry as well. 

They walk to the dune, all four of them. John is kidding around with Harry and Gemma and after a while he succeeds in making Sherlock laugh, too, a low, melodious rumble. Gemma threatens to take pictures of them and at one point she succeeds. She takes a snapshot when Harry is wrangling with John and attempting to kiss his cheek. But he squirms and moves, and she ends up kissing his ear instead while he’s cursing and pulling a face. John hopes it will turn out all too blurry. 

The night is warm at the campfire, and the atmosphere feels somehow different tonight. There’s a low hum of excitement in the air. People are louder, talking more, laughing more. Getting drunk, getting high quicker, easier. 

James and Eddie are sitting at the fire, with the girls John spotted them with yesterday. James seems to be pretty pissed already. He shoots John a look that starts out friendly and turns into something John would call outright flirtatious if he didn’t know better. 

They sit down next to Eddie and James and the girls, and James gets up and hugs Sherlock from behind, somewhere between drunk and mate-like and daring. 

“Hey, Sherlock, where’ve you been? We haven’t seen you in hours, have we, Eddie?” he says, laughing. 

Sherlock jerks the tiniest bit. John can tell that he’s startled, and that he is neither used to this kind of bodily contact nor comfortable with it. James is entirely too loud and _too_ _much_ in this moment. 

“I’ve had dinner. I was invited,” Sherlock answers, sounding oddly formal. 

James pats Sherlock’s shoulder, a tad too strong. 

“Yeah, right, I figured,” he says, slurring the words. 

“Having a good time then?” John asks James, trying to track his attention away from Sherlock. 

James laughs and nods. “I sure am.” 

John hopes that he’ll go back to the place where he was just sitting, that he’ll go back to flirting with the French girl that keeps eyeing him hungrily. 

Luckily, he eventually does. 

John looks at Sherlock, who’s staring at the fire, still looking a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock turns his head to look at John after a moment. And this time, he keeps the eye contact. The corner of his mouth turns up into a crooked smile, and he gets the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

John swallows, following Sherlock’s movements with his eyes. He doesn’t know if he’s hoping for Sherlock to put the cigarette between John’s lips again or just between his own. Both would be too much, getting him too worked up. Too dangerous or too disappointing. 

It’s too much for John, and he looks away, searches for the bottle of wine and takes a swig. He feels Sherlock’s gaze on him. Even when Sherlock puts the cigarette into his own mouth and lights it, he doesn’t stop watching John. 

When the tension has passed, when the cigarette is lit and John has drunk from the bottle, Sherlock hands him the cigarette, touching his hand. John is smiling again. 

At that moment, Gemma kneels down in front of them, on her rounds of taking pictures of people at the fire. 

“Hey you two, look at me! Smile!” 

They turn their heads to her, smiling indeed, but not because of her. Before they understand what’s going on, the flash of the camera is blinding them. 

Sherlock winces again and crunches his nose. 

Too many things he doesn’t like, John thinks. He isn’t surprised when Sherlock turns towards the sea again, looks at it for a moment, and says, “Want to show you something. Coming?” 


	7. Chapter 7

They’re walking down the dune, but this time it’s different. They’re walking away from the fire and the air is warm with the mild breeze from the sea, it’s buzzing with unexplored possibilities. They’re walking away from the others, from getting drunk, from that blatant, alcohol-fueled flirting. From the laughter and the chatting. It’s only Sherlock and him. 

It feels special. Well, everything about Sherlock feels special. But this, tonight, feels even more special to John. Leaving the fire like that, being the one Sherlock chooses to be with when he doesn’t want to be around the others. John can’t quite put his finger on it. 

Anticipation washes through John’s body, it tenses his muscles and pools in his stomach. It accelerates his heart’s beating, wakens him, and in his blood vessels, it mixes with nervousness. He avoids every thought of what it might be that Sherlock wants to show him, of what might be important enough to drag him away from the fire and the others. 

It’s just an escape, John tries to convince himself, he probably just wanted to get away from James and everything. 

But this remains a mere attempt of conviction. These words, spoken to himself in his mind only, never fully sink in and never reach his heart. These words are just a means not to freak out, something to hold on to while they walk down the dune. 

The sun has set some time ago and now the sky is darkening, the last stripe of a lighter blue at the horizon is turning indigo. The moon, a white-silver crescent with a tender halo, is shining bright enough to let them see where they’re going. Down at the beach the water is glistening with the moon’s reflections, a sea of silver light breaking in quiet black waves. The sand of the dune has turned from ochre to dark silver, not quite grey, feeling cool and dry underneath the soles of their feet. 

John stops for a moment on his way down the dune. He takes a deep breath while his feet are sinking into the soft sand. He looks up at the sky, searching for stars and finding them, a few at first, then ten, twenty, hundreds. Pinpricks against the night sky, too many to count, and far too many to understand. The waves are a slow, gentle rush down at the bottom of the dune along the beach, and Sherlock is still walking ahead of John towards the sea, his light steps setting the path which John will follow in a minute. 

It’s so fucking beautiful. 

John’s excitement is sweet and intoxicating, it’s singing in his system like a drug. He’s surprised to realise that he actually doesn’t need to know what’s going to happen next. He’s with Sherlock. 

It takes Sherlock no more than a moment to notice that John isn’t at his side any more. He turns around, searching for him. His tall, slender figure is so familiar to John by now, the way he holds his head in question, and a little impatiently. 

So fucking beautiful, John thinks again, and follows him, down the dune and to the beach. 

Sherlock is still a few feet ahead of him once they’ve reached the shore and John watches him stride towards the sealine. Sherlock takes a few steps into a low wave. He bows down and brushes a hand through the water as soon as it reaches up to his shins. The sea is louder here, but not by much, not as loud as John has heard it before, in other nights. 

“Let’s go swimming,” Sherlock says over the sound of the waves, keeping his back to John. 

“What? Now?” John stops dead at the middle of the beach, completely startled. “You realize that it’s — night? And that I haven’t brought my swimming trunks or anything? ” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says, taking a just enough steps back to be standing on dry sand again, already pulling his t-shirt over his head. “Don’t need it. There’s nobody around, is there?” he adds, gesturing at the dark, empty beach. 

John tries his best to argue, “No, but—!” 

But Sherlock is already turning his back to him and dropping his shirt into the sand. John stares at him, at his naked back, at the ridge of vertebrae in the silver moonlight when he opens the zip of his cut-off jeans. He stares at the muscles along his spine when Sherlock pushes them down his long legs, bends down a little, and steps out and kicks them aside. He’s only wearing a dark pair of boxers now and John is holding his breath while he watches Sherlock stripping them off his hips and buttocks, slumping them carelessly on top of his other clothes. And then he’s naked, completely naked, still with his back to John. 

Fucking Michelangelo couldn’t have made him any more beautiful, John thinks with a shaky inhale. 

He laughs a maybe slightly hysteric laugh when Sherlock heads into the sea without the faintest hesitation. He’s out on the water in an instant, swimming further away as John stares at him. 

“Come _on,_ John!” 

John shakes his head, briefly looking at the silent sky in exasperation. _This bloody madman!_

In a hurry, he discards his t-shirt and his cropped jeans. He tries not to think about what the fuck he’s doing when he’s pulling down his boxers, and follows Sherlock naked into the dark ocean. 

The water is much warmer than he’s expected, still heated by endless hours of sunshine. He focuses on Sherlock, ten feet ahead of him, and avoids looking at his own body, bright and shockingly naked in the moonlight, or at the inky sea he’s wading into. He walks in quickly, choosing the terror of the unknown waters over the possibility of being deserted by his own courage to do _this_ , to pull through whatever adventure Sherlock has in mind. 

It takes him a moment to notice, but with every step he takes, with every time his body stirs the water, there is a green shimmer at the crest of the waves. He takes a few more quick steps. As soon as the water reaches up to his stomach and his nudity is safely hidden, he takes his time and looks again, waves his hand through the sea — and there it is. 

The water is glowing. It’s gleaming with myriads of tiny sparks of faint, surreal green, shining in the darkness. 

“Christ, Sherlock, look…!” he says, a little breathless with disbelief. “This is — this is amazing.” 

He’s moving his hands through the waves and water, alight with that alien greenish glow, is seeping through his widespread fingers. It’s like pure fucking magic and John knows that he’s never seen anything like this before. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. When John looks at him he finds him staring at the water, deep in thought and not paying any attention to of John at all. 

What’s wrong? John wonders. 

Sherlock doesn’t move, he doesn’t react when John calls him again. 

And then, suddenly, it’s all awkward, it’s too fucking surreal, it’s complete madness. John horribly feels out of place. He wonders what he is doing here, how he even got here, naked in the fucking glowing Atlantic Ocean at night, with Sherlock of all people! 

_What the buggering fuck have I been even thinking, it’s— it’s—_

“ _Noctiluca scintillans,”_ Sherlock says. His voice carries across the water as if he was close enough to touch John, sounding full of wonder, low and intimate. It’s Sherlock’s voice that stops John from panicking. 

“What?” John breathes. 

“ _Noctiluca scintillans,”_ Sherlock repeats, and John can hear appreciation there, surprise and something that might be joy. 

Sherlock is moving his hands in the waves just like John did. The water is almost up to his shoulders, but he’s still leaning down a little, closely watching the surface of the water, and now John can see that he’s smiling. 

“It’s bioluminescent zooplankton, John, _Noctiluca scintillans_ , commonly known as _sea_ ,”Sherlock explains. “A marine-dwelling species of dinoflagellate that exhibits bioluminescence when disturbed. The glowing is due to a chemical reaction and the green colour indicates that it has recently fed on large amounts of phytoplankton.” He sounds intrigued, as if something he’d been working on had finally succeeded, had worked out the way he’d intended. 

John laughs because _of course_ Sherlock would know this. Because he knows mad things like these, like the sea sparkle, like the experiment with the ants, and because they make him happy. 

John walks out further into the miraculously shimmering sea. He laughs, low and happy, as crests of light evolve in the water with every stroke of his arms. 

They swim and simply touch the water for a long time. It’s a small cloud of _noctiluca scintillans_ in the sea, maybe two or three yards in diameter. They stir it, they move their hands and feet and bodies through the blossom of zooplankton, invisible safe for its light. 

“Just wish I’d brought my microscope. I’d love to see them properly. I wonder if you can reproduce the glow under laboratory conditions,” Sherlock muses. 

“That’s a pretty crap idea, Sherlock, bringing a microscope to the beach or to the camping site. You’d just get sand everywhere and ruin it,” John says with a laugh. 

“Well, obviously I haven’t brought it, have I?” Sherlock splashes some water at him. It glows when he splashes it, and it glows when the droplets hit John’s face. 

With any other friend _(yeah, right, as if there is any other friend like Sherlock)_ , John would splash some water back. Maybe he’d swim over, put his hands on his head or his shoulders in aggressive comraderie, and push him under water, playing a game, fighting to find out who’s strongest. He’d hold him down for a moment and then let him breach the water, gasping for air, hungry for revenge. 

But with Sherlock, it — it wouldn’t feel right. Not because John is afraid Sherlock might actually be stronger, fuck no, he’d take a challenge from him any time. It’s just that— 

Before John can finish this line of thinking, Sherlock dives and vanishes in the dark waters, leaving John alarmed for a moment. 

_Fucking madman!_

It’s silent with Sherlock gone. There’s the sound of the waves, and just the waves — there’s no laughter from the beach, and even the seagulls must be asleep in their windswept nests. Suddenly John feels irrationally alone. He scans the sea for Sherlock, but there’s nothing he can see, no flash of white skin, no movements in the water, jet-black except for where John is stirring it to glow. 

But then the sea sparkles, and there’s a splash and Sherlock is back up again, spitting out a mouthful of seawater and gasping for air. He’s so close. 

“You’ve got to try this, John,” he pants, his eyes glittering with excitement in the darkness, “dive, just a bit, and put your head under water, so that there are just a few inches of water covering your face. And then open your eyes,” he adds, still gasping for air. 

John crunches his nose. 

“Try it,” Sherlock breathes. 

John looks at him for a long moment. Something in Sherlock’s eyes tells him that Sherlock knows how much of a venture diving in the dark sea is for him, letting the gloomy waters swallow him whole. And that Sherlock will be here, watching over him. 

So John takes a deep breath, looks once more at Sherlock, and then he tries. He leans back into the water. He beds his head in the sea, feels the light tickle as water starts running into his ears and his whole body goes down. He sinks down further until his face is covered completely by water and further still. 

For the duration of a heartbeat it feels strange, and he’s scared. But he wants to do this and so, after a moment, he opens his eyes. At first, he hardly can see anything, the water is too blurry with the waves. But a moment later he can make out the moon, distorted and distant in the dark sky. And when he exhales and bubbles of air rise to the surface, the sparkle is there — no, that’s wrong. He’s _in_ the sparkle. He’s floating in a sea of light, touching it with his skin and with his lips, he could literally drink it in if he wants to. He blinks against the sea water, exhales again, reproducing the effect and grins in wonder, tasting the cool water in his mouth, the salt on his tongue. 

He fights the reflex to breathe as long as possible and only turns up when the need for oxygen gets overwhelming. 

“Oh my fucking God, Sherlock, I’ve never, _never_ seen anything like this before, it’s amazing. It’s so beautiful, so—,” he gasps. 

John stops mid-sentence, and takes another deep breath. 

Sherlock is beaming at him, radiating pride. Drops of seawater glitter on his clavicles, dripping down from his curls. His skin is pale in the moonlight, but his lips are standing out, still dyed dark from the wine they’ve head earlier. 

“You… you knew. About this. You wanted to show me. This. The algae,” John states incredulously. 

“They’re dinoflagellate. Zooplankton, not algae,” Sherlock corrects, and pauses. His smile is fading, he turns his head and looks out at the horizon, a faint silver line dividing the sky and the sea, shades of dark blue and grey. 

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock adds, in a low voice. 

Something inside John cracks. 

_Oh God._

_Oh God, Sherlock._

John brushes his hair away from his forehead, water keeps running into his eyes. He bites his lips. Something very sweet, something very beautiful is added to the happiness and wonder pulsing through his body, to the breathless excitement. Whatever it is, it’s warm, and reassuring, and the best unknown thing John has ever felt. 

He swallows, and in a sudden moment of clarity, John sees it. 

_Sherlock cares about me. He cares. He took me down here and made me swim, because he wanted me to see this, because he’s fucking looking out for me. Because I mean something to him. He’s found a way to lighten the dark waters for me._

John clears his throat and starts, “That’s—,” but he stops to rub a hand across his face. “I— I’m—,” he tries again, and abandons his sentence once more. He doesn’t have any idea what to say. Words are failing him, they don’t come close to what he’s feeling. He doesn’t even understand himself what he’s feeling. 

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, waiting for John to say whatever it is that he has to say. When John doesn’t finish his sentence and silence stretches out between them, Sherlock smiles very briefly, in that slightly shy way that tells John that it’s okay. Sherlock slowly rakes his hand through the water, and they swim without speaking, still stirring the plankton and evoking sparkles of green with every stroke. Sherlock is looking out at the ocean. John does, too, but he glances at Sherlock every few moments, still unable to process any of this. 

Eventually John reaches out with his left foot, feels for the ground, and yes, there it is, sandy but firm beneath him in the water. He moves towards the solid ground and stills, stands, covered in water up to his collarbone. 

Sherlock turns and stands as well, with the same seeking motion underwater. He looks at John. They’re facing each other and John is tempted to keep moving his arms, but he doesn’t need to, he isn’t swimming any more. He wishes he was, that he’d have something to do to break the silence. 

It’s now that John remembers that Sherlock, too, is naked. His heart is beating faster, spicing the excitement with nervousness. He can’t help but breathe quicker. He’s hearing his own inhales and exhales far too loud over the low gurgling of the waves. 

Sherlock looks down, at the water between them, not even a foot of space. Every inch of it feels too much and too little at the same time. 

John licks his lips. They’re still salty. 

As he runs his tongue over his lower lip, he knows with the sudden intensity of a lightning tearing up the darkness of the night, with a shocking, unprecedented certainty, that now, he could lean in and taste Sherlock’s lips, and find out if they’re as salty as his. He could lean in and taste his mouth, his spit, his tongue. 

It’s making him dizzy, thinking about Sherlock this way, and he wonders if Sherlock knows what’s going through his mind. If Sherlock is standing there on purpose, waiting, and if he would allow John to press his lips against his own. 

His heartbeat is almost deafening. 

John leans in the smallest bit, tilting up his head to Sherlock a fraction of an inch and waits. Sherlock swallows, and after a second, he mirrors John’s motion, as if to meet him halfway. 

Laughter from the dune disrupts the silence. 

They both turn their head and see a group of people rushing towards the slope, heading for the beach. 

“Oh fuck,” John groans, realizing that the moment is passing, that it is already slipping through his fingers. 

John looks at Sherlock, but he only meets his eyes for a fraction of a second, because Sherlock is already looking away and avoiding his gaze. And still, that short moment of eye-contact makes John’s stomach twist. 

Then they’re both bolting forwards in the direction of where their clothes rest in the sand, they’re half-swimming, half-running. John spots his shirt and jeans just some steps away from Sherlock’s. After a few long strides, they’re at the beach, running naked to their clothes. They get dressed quickly, far too much in a hurry to look at anything besides the piece of clothing they’re about to slip in next. 

John’s t-shirt is sticking to his wet skin, and his cut-off jeans are chafing against his thighs with sand, and when he looks up, the group is stumbling down the dune. Probably the guys from the campfire, but they’re still too far away for John to recognize their faces. They’re too far away to have spotted that Sherlock and him were naked only seconds ago. 

Sherlock is standing next to him, his face and arms are still glistening with wetness in the moonlight while his t-shirt is sticking to his skin, slowly drenching with sea water. 

“Let’s go,” John huffs, “this place will be crowded with idiots any moment now.” 

They don’t even consider going up the dune to the campfire again. Without saying a word, they turn right and walk back to the camping site. John glances at the sea. It’s dark, not giving away its secret of _Noctiluca scintillans._ And it isn’t intimidating, not anymore. It’s fascinating, and surely a bit dangerous. He can’t believe that a few minutes ago he’s been in there, naked, swimming. 

The path up the slope feels long tonight. Eventually the laughter dies down, the group stays further away at the beach. 

When they reach the camping site, John stops in front of his bench. It’s early, probably not even midnight yet. Ridiculously early to go to sleep. 

“I — we — I mean, er, would you like to sit here for a bit?” 

He clears his throat, about to go on speaking, to give Sherlock more reasons to stay here, with him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies hastily, interrupting him. 

“Oh.” John smiles. “Okay. I’ll just go and get a dry shirt, right? Mine’s wet, my hair is still dripping with water.” 

“I should get a fresh one, too.” 

John nods and watches Sherlock as he walks to his tent. It hasn’t even been a week since he’s passed John by, dropping his earphones in the sand. 

A few minutes later, Sherlock returns wearing a dry t-shirt. He’s got his discman and a pack of cigarettes in his hands. John is waiting for him on the bench, a bottle of water standing next to his feet. He’s trying to figure out what that was, out at sea. 

Would he really have done it? Would he — he forces himself to say it, to think the word, even if only in his mind — would he have _kissed_ Sherlock? God, what is this, all of this? 

He doesn’t come up with an answer, he can’t sort out the confusion and the thoughts tumbling over in his mind. He can’t think straight at all. Maybe he should just retreat to safer territory, until he understands what is going on. All he knows is that he doesn’t want the evening to end, not yet. 

Sherlock comes back and sits down next to him. John takes the bottle of water from the sand and offers it to him. 

“The girls have taken the wine. We’re left with this,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. 

“Who cares.” Sherlock smirks and takes the bottle, unscrews the cap and drinks. It’s a new bottle, still full, and water is trickling down his chin when he’s finished drinking. 

John looks the other way, feeling his heart about to explode in his chest. 

Sherlock wipes the water off with the back of his hand, closes the bottle and hands John one earphone and they listen to the music on his CD. This time, Sherlock doesn’t skip any songs, he just lets them play, one after the other. It’s _Creep_ first, Radiohead. John wonders again how much of himself Sherlock might be seeing in this song. 

You’re not a creep, Sherlock, he thinks, still grateful that he’s shown him the _sea sparkle_. And you’ve got nothing but a perfect soul. 

The song is about to end when Sherlock relaxes a bit and leans back against the bench. He’s sitting close to John, their shoulders and arms are touching. John is so captivated by the feeling that he almost misses the next two songs. He vaguely registers it’s Suede. 

They’re both slouched on the bench, sitting comfortably with their legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. John slides down a bit until he can rest his head against the back of the bench. He’s looking out at the sea. He’s enjoying being here with Sherlock, like this. 

Song after song is playing while the camping site is falling silent. If John wouldn’t know it’s right behind him, with people sleeping in their tents and caravans, he’d be tempted to think they’re alone in this place, with nobody to interfere with their lives, or with them. No one who’s expecting anything from them. No one here to disappoint, to ask any questions, to cast them disapproving looks. It would be a good feeling. 

With every breath Sherlock takes the warm weight of his arm and shoulder rests heavier against John’s body. Long minutes ago it’s started as a touch, maybe not even a conscious one. It’s slowly turning into something deeper. John feels Sherlock leaning against him, trusting him with the weight of his body and with his proximity. It feels the more exciting the more it feels natural. It doesn’t feel like coincidence any more. 

John closes his eyes. Sherlock moves and shifts on the bench, and for reasons he doesn’t understand his heart starts beating restlessly against his ribcage. He feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body where it touches his, and anticipation starts spreading in his veins, tickling with the hesitant expectation to feel a touch on his lips. When he hears the rustle of paper, the sound of a lighter and Sherlock’s inhale, his heart calms down again in relief, and the slightest bit of disappointment. 

He doesn’t open his eyes, although he opens his mouth, allowing Sherlock to put the cigarette between his lips. Sherlock is still so close, and when he moves to give him the cigarette, John feels it with his whole body. 

He drags on the cigarette, not opening his eyes, and takes it into his hand, slowly exhaling the smoke. He drags again, and gives the cigarette back to Sherlock. He takes it from John, touching his hand. John feels him trembling a little. 

They don’t talk. Halfway through the cigarette, Sherlock slips downwards a few more inches, until he, too, can rest his head against the back of the bench. He doesn’t though. He shifts sideways a little and rests his head against John’s shoulder. 

John holds his breath. 

He doesn’t know for how long. 

“Breathe,” Sherlock whispers into the night. 

John’s eyes are fluttering, about to fly open, but he keeps them closed. He takes a long, deep breath, and whispers back, “Okay.” 

They listen to all the songs on Sherlock’s CD, to Radiohead, Suede, David Bowie, Nirvana and The Pixies, and to all the rest. They don’t move, trying not to disturb the fragility of the moment. They don’t even smoke another cigarette. 

Sherlock’s head is heavy and hard on John’s shoulder. His hair is still damp and smells faintly of the sea. It feels good. It feels more precious than any other moment in John’s life. 

John still isn’t sure whether he’d have kissed Sherlock or not. He’s got the feeling he would know, deep inside, if he’d really dare look for an answer. It’s as if there was a wiser version of himself, a future John waiting for him, who knows all the truths, all the answers. Who is patiently waiting until he’s ready to face them. He wonders if this future John is older by hours, days or decades. 

He chooses not to look for the answer. He isn’t ready, not tonight. He chooses to sit here, with Sherlock so close to him, and devour every heartbeat, every passing second of it. Sometimes he closes his eyes, sometimes he watches Sherlock beside him, the way he looks _with him_. 

Two chests clad in t-shirts, worn out and faded. Two pairs of shorts, Sherlock’s long legs, John’s shorter ones. And their feet, dusted with sand. Sherlock’s are a bit larger than his, but not by much. Their arms. John can’t see the exact colours of their skins in the darkness, but he knows Sherlock’s would be lighter in contrast to his own, he knows his freckles, and the tan it has taken on during the past days. 

John’s hands are lying on his belly, he’s keeping them to himself, somewhat keeping them safe. Sherlock’s right hand is resting on his hipbone, just above his jeans pocket. His left is holding the pack of cigarettes. He’s been fidgeting with it, earlier, turned it around with his long fingers from time to time. He stopped at some point, calming down. 

John lets his left hand slip down from his belly and rest draped over the warm skin of Sherlock’s arm. It’s his answer to Sherlock resting his head against his shoulder. 

They listen to the CD a second time before Sherlock’s batteries die and the music stops in the middle of David Bowie’s _Heroes._

It feels rawer this way, and even more real, without the bubble the music has created. It’s just them now, their touches, their breathing and their heartbeat, and the waves in the distance. 

It’s a long time before John feels Sherlock’s head move and his body shift reluctantly, removing the earphone from his ear. John takes his out as well and, without saying a word, gives it back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock puts the discman next to him on the bench and sinks back against John. But this is borrowed time now, the spell is broken and soon they’ll have to get up and leave, go to sleep, go on with their lives. Its inevitability is crushing. He’s still breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s hair, feels the slow, gentle rhythm of his inhales and his exhales. He doesn’t want it to end. 

But eventually Sherlock lifts his head from John’s shoulder, and the spot feels cool and incomplete immediately. Sherlock sits up, leans forward, looking at the dark sea rolling in down at the beach. He turns his head a bit, looking at John, yet not meeting his eye. 

John sits up as well, his back and his arse numb and stiff from the hard bench. He bows down and collects the bottle of water. 

Without saying a word, they get up and walk over to John’s and the girls’ tents. 

Once again this night, they’re standing in front of each other, closely. 

John aches. These good-byes are killing him. 

Sherlock’s face is tired and unguarded, he’s not hiding his vulnerability. Sherlock raises his hand and brushes two fingers across John’s left shoulder, across the spot where he laid his head. He lets his fingers linger there for a moment, and John can’t help but hold his breath again. Then Sherlock turns, briefly meeting John’s eyes, and walks down the path to his own tent. 

John feels like sighing, but he doesn’t, he’s too afraid Sherlock might hear it over the wind in the trees. 

He is standing there for a long time, watching Sherlock vanish into the shades of the sparse forest. He watches him disappear inside his tent when he is nothing more than a grey blur in the darkness of the camping site. The low wind rustling in the tree tops is now swallowing every noise Sherlock could make. He’s gone. 

Slowly John walks back to his tent. He is weirdly conscious of setting one foot on front of the other, of the soft crunch of sand and thin twigs under his feet. He kneels down in front of his tent, feels the cool sand on the skin of his knee. He zips it open and crawls inside. He’s tired now, and he craves sleep, not sure if he will find it. He’s calm as much as he’s excited, he’s tired as much as he wants to stay awake until the sun rises across the dune. He wants to think of Sherlock as well as he wants to forget him, just for a few hours. 

He takes off his clothes, all of them. His skin is tautened with dried sea salt and he wonders if there might be microscopic particles of the sea sparkleas well, trapped on the outer layers of his skin and his hair. He gets into his sleeping bag, its light polyester lining cool and soft on his skin, on his buttocks, on his cock. 

As he closes his eyes, all the images of this night return. It’s the images off the sea, of swimming with Sherlock. Of his naked skin in the moonlight, of the ocean, swaying with low wave and alight with creatures that he hadn’t known even existed. They flicker across his subconscious while sleep is finally taking over. 

There’s one last thought on his mind before he drifts off. 

The feeling of these holidays is seeing things he never would have thought possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The breathtaking talented @khorazir has made a [drawing of Sherlock and John swimming at night](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/175183639148/sea-sparkle-watercolour-inspired-by-the)! I love it.


	8. Chapter 8

He’s drifting from sleeping to waking a couple of times. After a restless night and waking several times to a dark tent, he falls asleep once more, when the sky must be starting to turn grey with dawn. 

At this time of the night his dreams are weirdest — sometimes they’re long, detailed and wildly illogical scenarios, surrealistic blockbusters. Sometimes they’re vivid and shockingly erotic, and he gets off on things he didn’t even know he found arousing. Sometimes it’s all of this in one dream. Sometimes it’s a sequence, a series of dreams, if he wakes in between and drifts off to sleep again and then continues dreaming. Sometimes he wakes yearning, and leaking, and he’s already coming before he’s even opened his eyes. 

This morning, in the last grey, cool hours of the night, he dreams about the sea. He dreams he’s swimming, naked, and there’s someone else in the water with him. Not very close, and not touching him. But _watching_ . 

It’s just a dream, but the sensation of water on his groin, cool against the hot skin of his cock, is achingly real. There’s something daring and forbidden about it, something deliciously outrageous. He feels exposed, even though he’s completely covered in water. He’s so fucking turned on by it. 

His dream is not about what he actually does. It’s not about where he has his hands or how he moves them, it’s not about friction. Maybe he’s wanking in the water. Maybe he’s doing wilder things than he’s ever imagined, touching places of his body he’s never even dared thinking about this way. It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s just a current of water he’s feeling on the head of his cock, maybe that’s enough of a sensation to take him to the edge. Maybe there are different versions of his dream existing simultaneously, maybe they’re switching from one to the next. 

His dream is about what he feels, about what is happening in his mind. He knows he’s being watched closely, that his arousal is being taken in with great focus. John is allowing someone else to see him like this. The other person isn’t taking part, doesn’t even display any sign of reaction. John is panting, he’s enjoying it and even makes a bit of a show of it. He makes obvious how desperate he is, and how much he needs it — this, the sex, the orgasm. John is craving to be seen squirming and cursing with arousal. 

He’s half-dreaming, half-fantasizing, awake enough to caress the head of his cock. He’s grazing his fingertips through the the precome pooling there, smearing it across his frenulum and giving in to lust without holding back. He doesn’t care what he’s doing with his hands, he just needs more of it, he needs all of it. 

Reality is mixing with his dream, the sound of his sleeping bag’s fabric when he moves, the hot stale air in his tent instead of the Atlantic ocean’s cool waves. But there’s also the dawning realisation that he actually is naked, and that’s what transports him back to his dream. That’s what finally makes him come, cherishing his dream’s image of another person’s eyes on him. 

Everything he hears is his own ragged breathing and the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears. And yet his mind adds the sound of someone panting, like gasping for air after a long dive, like hard, vocal breaths. And like groans in a deep voice, pitched a whole octave higher by exertion or arousal. 

After he’s come down after his climax, he dozes off for a while. Once he’s fully awake some time later, he realises there’s come on his fingers, wet and cool, and both his hands feel sticky and need cleaning up. It’s a mess. He can’t find a towel, and he can’t dig through his backpack with his hands like this. He uses the t-shirt from last night, still sandy and damp with seawater, and wipes off his hands and belly. 

He sinks back down on his sleeping mat. He’s sweating, the mat is sticking to his bare arse and it smells of aging plastic. He can’t bring himself to get up, to get dressed and to shower. He’s still tired and a feeling of restless emptiness is taking his body hostage. It’s capturing the vacuum that was left when the excitement of both the night and his intense orgasm vanished at some point between waking and sleeping. And it doesn’t feel as if the emptiness is going to release him any time soon. 

Where’s this fucking emptiness coming from, he wonders, feeling a pinch of despair creep up his gut. He turns on his side, closing his eyes, hiding from the day that’s waiting for him. He thinks of last night, trying to escape for a few more minutes. The way the sea sparkle was glowing in the sea was a marvel, a miracle. It was really and absolutely beautiful. He lingers on the memory, plays it over in his mind. But he’s fast-forwarding the parts about Sherlock, the kiss that didn’t happen, the touches when they were sitting on his bench. 

Everything that felt exciting and beautiful and so fucking promising last night has taken on a different tone this morning. In the pale light of the day it feels like it’s got too much too quickly, like losing control. The last night was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most alarming night of his life. He can’t even put his finger on it to say what exactly it was that feels too much. It was just — more than he can handle. He can’t even look at it. He doesn’t want to think about it. He needs a break. 

Eventually, he pushes the sleeping bag to one side and rises from his hard sleeping mat. It’s even hotter today, the sun is burning, a menace of heat and UV-rays. He does his best to break the routine of the last days and decides to go swimming right after getting up. He’s feeling filthy anyway, so it doesn’t matter if more sweat and salt gather on his skin. He swims until his legs and arms are aching, until even his lungs feel strained. He doesn’t once scan the beach for Sherlock while he’s out at sea, and he avoids getting close to the spot where Sherlock headed into the water last night, naked. 

He showers afterwards, puts the tap to cold and forces his mind to focus on the water. He watches his physical reaction like it was happening to another person — the goosebumps on his wet skin, blanching under the tan. The muscles tensing up, the headache the cold water is giving him as he’s washing his hair. He doesn’t look at his reflection in the mirror while he’s shaving, he carefully avoids looking himself in the eyes. Whenever his mind strays to Sherlock, he tears it away again, because he isn’t ready to linger on what has happened between them last night. He’s trying to escape every thought about Sherlock and feels like a coward. 

He thoroughly tidies up and cleans his tent, refusing to look in the direction of the tents down the path in the forest. After a hurried breakfast, he takes all of his dirty clothes to the washing machines next to the showers and washes them. He’s cursing the coin slot that swallows most of his two-francs-coins without allowing him to switch on the washing machine. Finally he watches bunches of wet fabric tumbling in the heavy old machine, smelling faintly of washing detergent, disinfectant and mould. He even volunteers to do the dishes and suggests that Harry and Gemma go down to the beach, enjoy the sun, swim, whatever. He can’t quite stand talking to them this morning. He doesn’t want to feel Harry’s gaze upon him, her unspoken questions that would demand answers he isn’t ready for. He’s trying to smile while he’s clenching his fists. 

He can’t shake off the feeling that the older, wiser John is smiling gently at him. As if he’s letting him know without words that John’s attempt to distract himself by bringing order to the chaos on the outside will do nothing about the chaos he’s wrangling on the inside. 

Go fuck yourself, future me, he thinks defiantly, battling his way through the day. 

He does go down to the beach, though. In the afternoon, he spends some time reading on his bench, determined to finish at least one chapter today. But he gets bored halfway through it, it’s too hot to focus. So he finally slips into his swimming trunks and walks to the beach with his towel and his book in his hands. He thinks about having a swim to escape the heat, but at the moment, he’s even angry at the sea. 

He lies down next to Gemma’s and Harry’s towels under their makeshift sunshade. They’re out on the water, swimming. He keeps staring at the deep blue sky through his sunglasses. He’s still tired from his restless night, from the swimming and all the work he did today. He watches sea gulls fly across the sky and turns his head to see where they’re going. He watches the sandy hills. Grass is growing there in green patches, holding the sand with its roots and keeping it safe from the attacks of the ocean, from the erosion the winter storms are bringing. He wants to dig his toes into the baking hot sand, searching for a safe place to stand and to stop the feeling of the ground breaking away from under him. 

When the girls come back a long time later he’s been on his own long enough to be able to face them. To talk to Harry and not shout at her immediately. She doesn’t say much, barely even looks at him. He’s grateful for this, he can’t tell her what’s going on inside of him without losing his shit, and he can’t have that happen now. Maybe he’ll be able face this some time later, or tomorrow. 

As the day passes, some of his frustration slowly evaporates. They’re too lazy to prepare dinner, and so Gemma gets them three large slices of pizza from the camping site’s restaurant. It’s hot and tasty, greasy with molten cheese on the soft dough. It’s delicious although it should be far too hot for food like this. He hasn’t eaten anything but some bread for breakfast and only now realizes how hungry he is. 

“Arnel’s going to bring his guitar to the campfire tonight,” Gemma says, her mouth still full of pizza. 

“Who’s Arnel?” John asks. 

“The Spanish guy, you know, the one who works at the shop. You must have seen him, he’s at the campfire every night,” Harry explains. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know him. Just didn’t know his name.” 

They finish their food and drink some wine, watching the sunset in silence. John is sitting in the same spot where he’d sat last night, but the space next to him remains empty. 

— 

John follows Harry and Gemma to campfire. He’s calmer now, and exhausted from his own frustration. It’s still there, though, festering inside him, but it has taken on a calmer, sadder note. 

It’s good that he didn’t see Sherlock all day, he keeps telling himself, silencing the inner voice that is planting guilt into his heart for keeping his distance without any explanation. Well, he did get the break he needed, although it hasn’t solved much. 

When they arrive at the fire, Sherlock’s already there, sitting next to Eddie and James. The fear of losing control runs through John’s body like a shiver once more, but he forces himself to breathe calmly and pull himself together. He missed Sherlock, he realises. He missed him a lot. 

John is searching for clues in Sherlock’s body language, for anything that might give him any idea about how Sherlock is feeling. If Sherlock’s holding John’s disappearance against him. He’s looking cool and aloof, slightly bored. But his eyes lighten up with emotion when they meet John’s. 

Sherlock’s holding his gaze while John is coming closer, all the way from around the fire, until he’s almost in front of him. John’s heart is beating faster with every step. 

Sherlock wordlessly nods at the empty spot next to him and John sits down. 

And here he is again. At Sherlock’s side. He looks at the flames of the fire dancing in front of him, and then he closes his eyes for the duration of a breath. He’s at his side again, as if this day of fleeing from his emotions hadn’t happened at all. 

Gemma and Harry are talking to James. John spots the French girls from last night approaching, giggling while they watch James and Eddie. John wonders why he’s suddenly so sick of that, of all that flirting and obvious courting. 

He doesn’t look at Sherlock’s face, but he watches his feet, half-buried in the sand, and his fingers that are fidgeting with a pack of blue _Gauloises._ His heart is beating a tad faster when he remembers how he’s put his arm on Sherlock’s last night. When he thinks of Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, he tries to swallow both the memory and his confusion down, and asks Sherlock for a cigarette. 

“Do you want your own one? Or do you do want to share?” Sherlock asks back while he flips the pack of cigarettes open and searches for his lighter. 

“Course I want to share,” John replies, and adds, not thinking about what he’s saying, “I wouldn’t survive it without you.” 

They both don’t dare meeting each other’s eyes after that. 

Luckily Arnel arrives that moment, lazily carrying his guitar over his shoulder. He sits down a feet next to John and immediately, a few people gather around him, Gemma and Harry are among them. He brushes his fingers across the strings, and then tunes his guitar for a moment. He starts playing a few chords and after a moment, John recognizes Nirvana’s _Where did you sleep last night._

Arnel has got a beautiful voice, it’s rich and smoky, and a bit rough. His Spanish accent is almost gone when he’s singing. 

Sherlock takes a cigarette, puts it in his mouth and lights it. He drags and John stretches out his hand to take it as soon as Sherlock is finished. He pulls as well, inhales long and deeply, until the smoke is aching in his lungs. It’s grounding, and offers a strange, comforting feeling of calm. He exhales just as slowly, devouring the feeling, and gives the cigarette back to Sherlock. 

They’re smoking and listening to Arnel singing. When the song is coming to an end and the cigarette is almost down to the filter, Sherlock says, in such a low voice that only John can hear him, “I’ve had the biggest crush on Kurt Cobain. I was devastated when he shot himself.” 

And with that, everything goes silent for John. His mind is completely wiped blank. Gone is whatever had remained of his confidence, of his hope to somehow get through the evening. His heart keeps beating ferociously, but John almost doesn’t hear it, doesn’t feel it. It’s pumping blood and oxygen to his brain where it isn’t needed, because he can’t put a single thought together. He has to fucking focus hard just to keep on _breathing._

It’s as if the comfortable vagueness of their friendship has been brushed away. John has been grateful for that, for the way it had been undefined, and that he didn’t have to put a fucking label on it. He’d been too bloody afraid of what that label might have been, and actually, he still is. 

Amidst this chaos in his mind, John forces himself to have a quick honest look at what sort of emotions are currently boiling up inside him. There’s fear, yes, that was to be expected, and, oh God, joy. And this fact scares him even more. 

Sherlock is still sitting beside him, still smoking, still not looking at him. John doesn’t know if ten seconds have passed or a full five minutes. With his heart still beating wildly, John realizes that this moment is made of glass — if he makes one wrong movement, it will shatter, it will be destroyed and gone, and they’ll both end up in pain. Pull yourself together, he commands to himself. 

Sherlock couldn’t have been much more obvious, could he? John is frantically searching his mind for a good answer to give when your friend has just outed himself as gay _(he has, hasn’t he?)._ An answer that makes clear you’re fucking okay with the fact that he’s gay and simultaneously hides your own fucking confusion and fascination with the very existence of said friend. 

“Good,” John whispers, and immediately corrects himself, feeling like the biggest idiot on earth, “no, no! Not good of course. Not good at all. It’s fucking sad, he was amazing. Nirvana was great.” 

Safe territory again, music, John thinks, sighs, and can’t help the feeling he’s still messed it up. 

“He took drugs, didn’t he? Heroin?” he asks after a moment. 

“He was desperate,” is all Sherlock replies, not looking at him. 

Arnel is playing another song, John knows it, but he doesn’t care. His calmness is gone again, it’s fucking out of the window, crossed the rooftops, ran away. He tries to tell Sherlock that he’s sorry. That he understands. Anything. 

‘ _I’m sorry you’ve been so sad, Sherlock.’ — No, Sherlock didn’t know him personally, this might be way too much._

‘ _Are you better now?’ — Fuck, too personal, maybe._

‘ _Don’t start doing any harder drugs than weed. Please, just don’t do any drugs at all.’ — God, it’s none of my fucking business, it’s too personal, I’m not his— his— oh, screw it._

‘ _Since when have you known you’re gay?’ — Too fucking personal!!_

John casts a sideways glance at Sherlock. He hasn’t noticed how that bottle of wine has ended up standing in front of them in the sand, but it’s there now. John checks the label, it’s one of those Harry has bought. He takes it and hands it to Sherlock, a silent sign of that he cares. 

Sherlock turns his head, just enough to look at John, and slowly drinks from the bottle. He keeps looking at John with glinting eyes, a sliver of silver and green in the flickering light of the fire. There’s something about the way Sherlock looks at him that makes John lower his gaze and swallow hard. 

Sherlock puts the bottle down and hands it to John. He takes a swig as well, but he keeps looking at the fire. 

The song ends. They sit in silence while everybody else seems to be laughing or chatting or at least has an intoxicated smile plastered on their faces. 

Arnel laughs, smiles when someone compliments him on his beautiful voice, on how good he plays the guitar. Arnel has a few sips from his beer and John is relieved to see he’s taking up his guitar again and places his fingers on the strings. John still has no idea how to talk to Sherlock now. When they listen to music, they can simply — be. 

John focuses on the music, just to give his mind something to do. Arnel is playing the intro of a new song when John hopes that by some miraculous stroke of fate this song might tell him something, anything that would make him understand what’s actually going on. 

Oh Christ, John thinks. What if it it does. Please, I could really do with some answers now, right? 

It’s a beautiful song, slow and melancholy and John has the vague impression that he knows it. It might be one of those songs he turns louder on the car radio, when he’s driving with Harry. He listens to the lyrics as if they were an oracle. 

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_  
_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do_  
_I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you_  
_And I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you_  
_No, I don't want to fall in love_  
_No, I don't want to fall in love — with you._

That’s is what’s happening, John realises. That’s what’s going on. 

He looks at Sherlock. Within the fraction of a second, he’s taking in the sight of him, every detail — his dark curls framing his face, his cheekbones, the freckles on his forehead. His eyes, focusing on a spot lost in the fire. His lips, that seem to pull John towards him magnetically. His musician’s fingers, his arms, the dark blue t-shirt with some fading print on it, maybe Pink Floyd, maybe something else. Cut-off jeans and long legs, and feet so elegant they’re mocking John. He looks at his paint brush-like eyebrows that keep him wondering if they are as soft as they look. He looks at Sherlock’s eyes, at his mouth, tense with something that might be uncertainty, that might be sadness. 

He thinks of last night, of all the things Sherlock’s done, like showing him the sea sparkle, like resting his head on John’s shoulder. Like sitting too close to him, always, perfectly close. John fucking well knows that this isn’t something Sherlock does easily. He simply knows. 

I’m falling in love with you, John thinks and his heart clenches. I don’t want to fall in love with you. 

Some people at the fire are listening to Arnel, spellbound, not even breathing. Others are talking in low voices, there’s hushed laughter with high giggles in between, and Harry is quietly singing along. It’s still warm, hot even. It’s an easy summer night. People are happy. Falling in love. Are in love. 

John closes his eyes and exhales shakily. That’s what it is, he’s — he’s falling love. He’s such a bloody idiot. Why didn’t he see that earlier, why didn’t he do anything about it? This can’t be happening. 

“John.” 

Sherlock’s voice drags him out of his thoughts. He opens his eyes, Sherlock is handing him a cigarette he didn’t notice Sherlock has lit. He takes it, and inhales. He’s smoking too much tonight, but he doesn’t care. He’d do a lot to numb the confusion and the helplessness battling inside him. 

He drags once again, wondering how the fuck Sherlock knew that this is what he needs, right now. How many of the things that he needs does Sherlock know about? 

Sherlock’s amazing. He’s… fucking perfect. He just isn’t for him. 

How is he falling in love with him? He isn’t gay, is he? A fucking week ago he’d been fantasizing about Gemma, bloody hell. He’d very precisely and in great detail pictured what it would be like to touch her naked and very female body. For God’s sakes, he’d been thinking about what it would be like to sleep with her. He’s not gay! And — just speaking very hypothetically — and if he was, how would he even handle it? 

What the fuck is this? John keeps asking himself what the hell he’s even supposed to do. 

He’s out of his depths so badly he’s getting restless. When Sherlock hands him the cigarette again, he pulls quickly, craving to feel the nicotine’s soothing effect once more, but it isn’t coming. He forces himself to stay where he is, sitting next to Sherlock. 

He looks up at the night sky, watches flakes of embers and ashes being carried up into the sky by the heat, he watches them burning up and dying down, vanishing in the night. If he only could do that. 

God, this can’t be true. He can’t be falling in love with Sherlock. 

And yet you are, the older, wiser John tells him inside his head, inside his heart. He’s telling him very calmly, so very much aware of the state John is in. John feels the truth of it with every fibre of his being. This truth is too large for his body to hold, and he feels like he’s about to explode with tension. 

He’s up on his feet in an instant, almost bumping into Sherlock, and hating himself for it. And then he’s taking long and forceful strides out into the darkness, he doesn’t even know if it’s the right direction for the camping site. He realises that Sherlock is getting up, too, that he follows him for a few steps, calling his name into the night. John doesn’t turn back. 

The feeling of these holidays is a freaking, fucking mess. 

He’s running away like the world’s most pathetic coward. He’s storming down to the beach and only realizes a few minutes later that he’s heading in the wrong direction, away from the camping site. He’s noticing now that he’s taken the bottle of wine with him. He’s running towards the sea, stops and starts kicking the waves with his bare feet, not giving a fuck that his shorts are dripping wet within a minute. He wants to crash the bottle against a rock, just to feel something break. But there is no fucking rock, not a single fucking one on this whole beach. He drinks the wine instead in large, insatiable gulps and throws the bottle out into the sea as far as he can. 

Afterwards he’s walking back to the camping site, past his bench and his tent and straight to the bar, finding it still open. He sits down and spends too much of the money he’s been working so hard to earn on vodka. It tastes awful, and the blunt alcohol is burning down his throat. It feels just right, just like what he deserves for behaving like this. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of how Harry must be searching him at the dune. He tries to picture the lost look on Sherlock’s face as he’s sitting at the campfire, just next to Eddie and James, and yet alone. He orders another vodka, and a few more after this one, to wash the images from his mind. He knows he’s making the same fucking mistake as Harry and his dad. Alcohol has never solved anything, he’s seen plenty of that. And yet, it’s the only thing that promises to take the edge off his emotions, to make him feel less, and think less. The barman doesn’t ask any questions. 

Somehow he makes it back to his tent. He’s too drunk to undress and falls asleep in his clothes. He doesn’t notice Harry when she zips up his tent later and drapes his sleeping bag across his sleeping body. He doesn’t notice when his tent is being opened a second time, and Sherlock holds a hand in front of John’s mouth and then presses it lightly to the fluttering artery on his neck, checking his breathing and his pulse. Making sure that John isn’t asphyxiating on his own vomit. Before Sherlock leaves, he places a bottle of water next to John’s head, but John doesn’t notice any of this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you want to listen to Chris Isaak's wonderful "Wicked Game" and Nirvana's "Where did you sleep last night", you'll find them on this [playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLUJVuvfTNIpFVCr3-8t8LF15OP0TVxgM1).
> 
> Very, very special thanks to @SinceWhenDoYouCallMe_John and @green_violin_bow for your amazing support with this chapter. You've saved me.


	9. Chapter 9

Darkness. 

The world is spinning. His body is covered in cold, sticky sweat and his pulse gallops. 

He’s got about thirty seconds before he’s going to throw up. 

— 

John makes it two yards away from his tent, stumbling into the darkness of the night, and and manages to stop behind two pines before he’s finally sick. That’s actually more than he dared hope for when he first flew out of the tent. 

Afterwards, the world keeps spinning, but it eventually slows down a bit. He’s still drunk, he can’t quite keep his balance, and he feels like shit. 

He walks back in a bee-line, then slumps down in front of his tent and tries to find some water by reaching inside without moving his head or his cramping stomach too much. There’s a bottle next to his sleeping bag, even though he doesn’t remember putting it there. He pulls it out of his tent and sinks into the cold sand. 

The bottle hasn’t even been opened yet. He unscrews the cap and drinks slowly in spite of his thirst. The water tastes sweet and cool, and he can’t remember when water has ever tasted so good. 

He takes a deep breath. He can’t go back to sleep, he can’t even go back into his tent now, the smell of last night’s vodka and cold cigarette smoke is sickening. He realizes that his clothes smell just as bad, he has to get rid of them, _now._

He finds a new t-shirt, a pair of boxers and his other pair of shorts. He’d never have thought he’d be so grateful for the laundry he did yesterday. He’s dried his clothes on the washing line where they usually hang their wet towels and now they smell like sunshine and salt. It’s a comforting scent, like better days, like confidence and like a life where he hasn’t fucked things up so thoroughly. 

He leaves the tent open to allow some fresh air inside, and then gets back on his bare feet. He walks over to his bench, slowly and still swaying a little, and John finds he’s exhausted when he gets there. His stomach hurts, and he knows he’s going to have a muscle ache from heaving. He sits down, placing the bottle next to him, then pulls up his legs and wraps his arms around them. 

It’s still warm. The breeze is gone, it feels surreal, and the scents of the summer night are even more intense than usual. He can almost taste the aroma of pine and sand on his tongue. It mixes with the bitterness of the cigarettes he’s smoked, with the sweetish-sour taste of alcohol and stomach acid. He drinks some more water to clear up his head. 

The sea is calm, and even the waves seem to rest. The stars are fucking bright, they look as if they are only a few yards away instead of light years, as if he could climb up into the pines and pick them from the sky. The camping site is silent, no laughter, no talking, not even a snorer in one of the tents nearby. 

A headache throbs behind his temples. He looks at the sea, a dark, uneven mirror. 

He thinks of Sherlock. 

His heart starts beating faster and shame and fear start to pool in his stomach again, creeping up his throat, until he’s almost choking with the onslaught of emotion. And yet, there’s also a small bubble of happiness about the fact that Sherlock could be, must be, probably _is_ gay, and that John might be… might be what? 

I can’t, he thinks. I really can’t. I need some time. I’ll face this tomorrow, I promise, but for now… I just need some more time. 

He’s squeezing his eyes shut. He’s breathing hard, waiting until his heart calms down and the urge to throw up again subsides. 

Tomorrow. Once the sun has risen and a new day has begun, I’ll fucking try and figure this out. Tomorrow. I promise you, Sherlock. 

He sits at the bench for a long time. He shifts, stretches out his legs and leans back, resting his head against the back of the bench. He dozes off a few times, and although he sleeps neither very soundly nor for a long time, it’s good. Each time he wakes, he feels a bit more like himself. 

The sky above the pines turns grey first, then pale, blushing pink, and finally flaming orange. John knows he should get up and try to get some more sleep in the shelter of his tent, but still, he doesn’t rise from the bench. He turns and sits sideways, folding his arms on the back and resting his chin ontop. He watches the rising sun. The atmosphere of the world around him has changed, and everything feels open at this moment, now that a new day is about to begin. Maybe — maybe he’ll even find a way, maybe he’ll figure things out. 

He stays there until the rays of the sun are strong and warm against his skin, a promise of the heat the day will bring once the sun has fully risen. 

He slowly walks back to his tent, drinks some more water, and sleeps. 

— 

When John wakes again, he lies very still. The headache has grown into an angry beast incarcerated in his skull, raging against its bony walls. He wants to swallow some spit to find out how his stomach feels, but his mouth is too dry and ashen. He turns in his sleeping bag, slowly, and reaches out for the bottle of water. He balances the bottle to his mouth and drinks, pouring water down on his neck and chest and onto the sleeping bag. He feels the water flow down his throat, he even feels it in his stomach, and it feels like something good and pure. The very opposite of how he feels like. 

It works, he’s not feeling sick. He props himself up on one elbow, cursing the pain in his head, and drinks again. He registers he’s left the tent open this morning while he slept, and when he looks outside, he finds a bottle of cherry coke and a single paracetamol, still in its packaging, in front of the entry. 

He leans out and takes them both, pushes the paracetamol out of the plastic and unscrews the coke. He washes down the tablet with the coke, and the sugar and the acid clean the disgusting taste of hangover from his mouth. 

He waits five more minutes, sitting in his tent, before he dares to come out. He still doesn’t really feel ready to face the world. 

It’s hot already, not even just warm, but hot. So hot he starts sweating once he’s out in the sun, and it’s so bright that he goes back to his tent almost immediately and fetches his sunglasses. He feels ridiculous, like the cliche of a hungover person. 

The sunglasses allow him to open his eyes properly for the first time all morning. Harry and Gemma’s tent is zipped closed, and the box with the dishes is gone. They must have had breakfast already. 

Beyond the camping site, the sea is dark blue, there’s not a single white crest to be seen, and there’s still no wind. The heat is pressing. 

John turns his head, slowly enough not to stir the headache, when he hears someone in flip flops approaching behind him. He sees it’s Harry, carrying the plastic box filled with cleaned dishes and washing up liquid, and John’s grateful to see her. In fact, his heart flips at the sight of her, and John realises that he aches, even longs to talk to her. To tell her. 

“Hey Harry,” he says when she’s close enough that he doesn’t have to speak up. 

“Hey Johnny,” she replies. She places the box next to Gemma’s tent and sits down at his side. “You found the coke and the paracetamol?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” He holds up the bottle of coke and sips. Suddenly talking is much harder. 

They sit in silence for a while, looking out at the sea. Harry doesn’t say anything just to start a conversation, but she’s waiting, patiently. With Sherlock, he’d smoke now, he thinks, and he aches again. Finally, he clears his throat and asks, “Where’s Gemma?” 

“Taking a shower. And afterwards she wants to go the shop, get some fruit, she said. She’ll be gone for a while.” 

So Harry knows he wants to talk. But he doesn’t say a word, can’t find the right words, doesn’t know where to start. 

She puts her hand on his wrist and strokes her fingers across the bone there, across the round knob John has memorized as the ulna. God knows if John will ever need to remember the names of the bones in the future. 

“Johnny, what’s wrong?” 

He wants to speak, swallows, then looks down. He can’t. 

“You’ve been avoiding him all day yesterday, and last night you ran away from him. Why? What’s happened?” 

He looks up at her eyes, dark with worries and questions. 

“I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what’s going on.” He stops before his voice can fail him, and drinks some more coke. “I don’t even know what I feel.” 

She looks at him, and continues to stroke his wrist. It feels good, having those points of connection. It feels good knowing, feeling that she cares. 

“Okay,” she says after a while. 

Maybe just start — start at the beginning, he tells himself, just at the beginning. He takes a deep breath. 

“When we got here, I was determined to… fuck, sorry, I don’t mean…” 

“You wanted to see if you could hit on Gemma.” Her smile is warm and genuine. 

“Yeah.” He huffs an embarrassed laugh. “And you know — Gemma is — Gemma’s a _girl_ , just all my girlfriends I’ve had before have been _girls_.” He winces at himself. Of course Harry, out of all bloody people, knows Gemma’s a girl. He forces himself not to linger on this, but to carry on, before his courage deserts him. “I’ve been fucking happy with girls. And then _he_ comes along and I — and I —” he trails off. He closes his eyes, breathes through his mouth, trying to will down the nausea and the choking. 

Harry strokes his wrist, and then threads her fingers between his, holding his hand. 

They sit like that for a long time, until he can open his eyes again. 

“You’re sure you’ve never been attracted to men before?” she asks. 

John doesn’t reply at first. When he does, it’s a whisper. 

“I don’t know.” 

He thinks. He goes back to memories of his heart beating wildly against his ribs, of licking his lips, of inappropriate fascination. Of fantasies he’d only allowed himself to have when he’d been truly, badly drunk. Too drunk. He thinks of the handful of men he’s been more than fascinated with, always out of reach, never real, but at a safe distance. He thinks of the excuses he’d made, of the explanations he’d found. Of the lies and and the cover-ups he’d kept telling himself. It’s all falling into place now. 

“Maybe,” he says, and shame about his cowardice starts pooling in the same space inside him where the nausea lives. “Maybe I was. I didn’t exactly think a lot about it. I didn’t want to. Maybe I’ve been too fucking happy whenever I fall in love with a girl again to think about anything… anyone else.” 

Harry’s holding his hand. Her hand is warm and soft, and strong, so strong, John can feel it. 

“Could you be bisexual, John?” 

_Bisexual._

He’s heard about being bisexual, he read about it somewhere, in some magazine or so. Now the word sounds like a key, like understanding, like things making sense again. He takes off his sunglasses and rubs his hand across his face. 

He looks out at the sea. He thinks of the layers of warm water at the top, glistening aquamarine in the sunlight. He thinks of all the times he’s been diving, exploring what there is under the sea, cool, green-blue, so different and so far away from everything he could see from the surface. He thinks of the fascination that has held for him, how alive he felt there, almost bursting with life. 

He thinks of how frightened he was by the dark ocean at night. And of how Sherlock helped him overcome that fear, how he showed him the sea sparkle. 

He swallows hard. _Bisexual._ It never occurred to him that it might apply to _him_. 

His body is starting to tingle with the inkling of how fucking free he might feel if he was just capable of accepting that he, _John,_ might be bisexual. 

He needs to take a few deep breaths. He looks out at the ocean again. It’s still blue, still unfathomable, and still so much more than he can see from the surface. So much more than he can understand right now. 

His heart is still beating much too forcefully when he understands, with a sudden and absolute certainty that, _yes,_ he is bisexual. It explains so much. He almost has to laugh. He’s bisexual as fuck. 

“I — guess I am, Harry,” he says with a low incredulous chuckle. “Bloody hell. I’m bisexual.” 

He’s never even said it out loud, and the word feels new and powerful and yet a bit intimidating on his tongue. 

Harry squeezes his hand and smiles at him, her grey eyes sparkling. 

John doesn’t know how much time passes while Harry sits there and holds his hand. John knows she’s giving him all the time he needs to get used to this new thought. 

Finally, John squeezes her hand, just a bit, it must be almost imperceptible. But it tells her that he’s ready, and she asks, “So. And Sherlock? How do you feel about him?” 

Sherlock. Oh God. John feels like choking again. 

But he won’t stop now, he’s come this far. He’ll get through the rest of it. 

“I—” he stops. It’s still hard to think about it, and it proves to be much harder to say it it out loud. He takes a deep breath — and still doesn’t manage to say the words. “I guess I’m… feeling a fuckload of things for him.” He swallows. He can’t go on and looks up at Harry instead. She’s still smiling. 

“You’re not surprised?” he asks, because he’d been expecting a different reaction, anything — 

“No, I’m not surprised. Johnny, a blind man could have seen that. You’re arse over tits into him.” 

“Yeah,” John admits faintly. He definitely is the world’s biggest idiot. 

“And Sherlock — what about him? What do you think?” Harry asks. 

John sighs. 

“Well, he… he said — more or less, that is — that he’s gay. I guess. And there — there was this one moment when I thought that I might, well, kiss him. He didn’t pull back or anything.” 

He groans. 

“And? Did you kiss him?” Harry asks. 

“No, no, we were interrupted,” he replies quickly. 

“What happened?” 

“It — it was at sea. At night. And a group of people came running down the dune to the beach.” John can see curiosity flickering across Harry’s face as he speaks. “We had to get dressed pretty quickly,” he adds in a low voice, leaving all the details to her imagination. “But we were sitting on the bench afterwards, half the night. And he — he leaned his head against my shoulder.” He thinks of the heavy weight of Sherlock’s body against his own. “He just… rested his head on my shoulder the whole fucking time we sat there.” 

“Sounds to me as if he was pretty interested in you as well.” There’s excitement in Harry’s voice, but she’s doing her best to hide it, John can tell. 

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Maybe.” 

His stomach is back to making somersaults in his belly. But this time, John knows he’s not going to throw up, it’s just nerves. He lifts the bottle of cherry coke to his lips and takes another sip. 

When he’s put it back into the sand, Harry asks, “Did you want to to kiss him?” 

John swallows and thinks of that night, of him and Sherlock, naked in the sea. 

“Yes,” he whispers. 

She shifts a bit closer until she’s close enough to pull him into her arms and hug him. 

“Oh, Johnny. You’re in love with him.” 

He laughs. And as if his madly beating heart and his utter confusion weren’t enough, he feels his eyes burning with sudden emotion, and his body hitches with choked breaths for a moment. 

Harry must feel it as well, because she pulls John closer around his shoulders and says, “Hey, everything’s going to be alright, John. Everything’s going to be just fine.” 

He laughs in spite of being completely overwhelmed. He turns his head towards Harry and buries it in her neck for a moment. Whatever’s going to happen, he’s not alone. Harry’s here with him. He stays there for a while, letting himself be held, in plain sight for everybody else. 

When his heart finally begins to slow down, he lifts his head again, and straightens. Harry lets go of him, but keeps holding his hand. 

The sea is still there in front of them, blue and glittering, reflecting the sunlight. John has a feeling he’s going to need it today, to escape the heat. He’ll need to move, to feel his body. Even though he’s exhausted, he’s starting to feel restless just sitting here with his turmoil of emotion. 

He thinks of the times he was swimming with Sherlock. He sighs internally. _Oh, Sherlock._

Then, suddenly, an entirely new thought washes over him. 

“God, fuck, what will mum say if I, I don’t know, if I somehow date him? If he was—” he stops. The word he's going to say sounds ridiculous, completely fucking mad in this context, in the context of him, of his own life. 

John takes a deep breath and forces himself to go on. “If Sherlock was, I don't know, my boyfriend?” 

“Just like you told me. She’ll come around.” 

He runs a hand through his hair. “God.” 

“Feels different when it’s suddenly about you, doesn’t it?” she says with a smile. 

“Yeah,” he nods. But John’s smile is wiped off his face and his stomach starts clenching again when he thinks of their father. “Dad—” 

“Dad doesn’t matter, John,” Harry interrupts him. “He’s an arsehole, he’s a shite father, and he’s a drunk. On top of that, he’s also a homophobe, yes. But he walked out on us, on all of us. He doesn’t even want to see us, he’s not paying for us. So, stop caring, John. He doesn’t care, either.” 

John isn’t so sure anymore that he isn’t going to feel sick again. 

“It hurts, how he left us. What he’s done. Sometimes it still hurts,” he says. They haven’t talked about their father in at least a year. He hasn’t even thought about him for weeks. John knows that in the past Harry has rejected their father stronger than he does. 

“Yes, it hurts.” Harry squeezes his hand again. “I know.” 

Neither of them say anything else in a long time. Eventually, Gemma comes back from the shop carrying a white plastic bag and makes her way towards the two of them where they still sit. She takes out a banana and hands it to John. 

“Hey. Thought you might like to eat something.” 

Weirdly enough, the banana is the only thing he might be able to eat without vomiting again straight away. He takes it gratefully. 

“Thanks.” 

There’s no way he could ever thank these two enough. 

He looks at Gemma for a moment, remembering that, a week ago, he fancied her, and the knowledge that he can be attracted by both women and men sinks in a little deeper. 

He eats the banana. It’s good, soothing his sore stomach. Gemma starts making coffee, and John is surprised to find the smell delicious. 

Gemma hands both Harry and John a mug of steaming, hot coffee when it’s ready. She sits down in front of her tent, giving Harry and John some space. John sighs, and takes a long swallow. In spite of the heat, the warm coffee is perfect. 

So he’s in love with Sherlock. And Sherlock might be in—? In love with him, too? He doesn’t know. He matters to Sherlock, of that he’s sure, but, Christ. 

John tries to take a cautious look at his own life, at what it might be like to live his life being bisexual. He pictures his mother once again, and firmly tells himself that it will be okay. He pictures being back in his class room, and grumbles, slightly desperate, “The idiots at school will kill me.” 

“Then _don’t_ _tell_ the idiots at school. You’re going to start your last year. Bear with them for one more fucking year, and then you’re done. School is hell when you’re queer, John. Don’t tell anyone if you don’t feel like it. Sherlock’s at boarding school anyway, isn’t he? It’s not like you’ll walk hand in hand down Winchester High Street every Saturday night.” 

He exhales. Maybe, maybe Harry’s right. 

“How do you know all this?” he asks after a moment. 

“I don’t know it. I learn as I do it. Most of the time I’m still fucking terrified as well.” 

Gemma gets up, takes a step towards Harry, and strokes her hair. “You’re doing amazing, you know that, babe?” 

She kisses Harry and Harry looks up and smiles at her. Gemma tears away after a moment to finish her coffee. She bends down to place another kiss on the crown of Harry’s head. “I’ll be down at the beach.” 

“Okay,” Harry replies, sounding tender. 

He looks at them. What if he could have that, too? This closeness, this amount of care? It suddenly feels like the very thing he wants. Maybe, yes, maybe he’d want to be this close with Sherlock. And it would also mean, well… Christ, what if— _Oh God._

“What — what if it feels weird being… with a man?” John blurts out as soon as Gemma’s gone. He’s back to feeling helpless, to feeling absolutely useless. “I mean he’s a _man_. He’s — he’s got a cock! What if it’s all suddenly strange and—” 

“Yeah, he’s got a cock and balls, and before you say anything else, take a moment and think about that again.” 

John exhales shakily. He thinks. He thinks about Sherlock being naked, and about Sherlock’s cock. It feels weird and daring and really fucking inappropriate to have these thoughts in the presence of his sister — and yet the very image of it is going straight to his groin. He sucks in a breath and blushes. 

“Yeah, right,” Harry says, raising one eyebrow, “not so problematic that he’s a man including a cock and everything, is it?” 

John shakes his head and laughs. 

He’s never had a conversation that was as fucking strange as this one. And he’s never had a conversation that has saved him as much, or that has felt felt so honest, so true. 

When his laughter starts to die down, he remembers that there’s still so much left to figure out. He bites his lip, and after a moment, he finally says, “Harry, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” 

“I know, Johnny. You’ll get there. Trust me.” 

Now it’s him squeezing her hand. 

“Thank you.” 

“Welcome to the queer side, little brother.” 

— 

John spends the rest of the day in a haze, in that special surreal dizziness one ends up with after getting fucking worked up emotionally, after getting drunk as hell and after sleeping way too little. He’s caught up in his own head, let alone in his own heart. He knows he hasn’t even begun to cover all the necessary thoughts — that he hasn’t fully understood the change his life is undergoing at the moment. The change _he_ is undergoing. It’s monumental, he knows that much. 

He loses track of time, but he registers it’s getting hotter and hotter. It’s not only the dim remainders of his headache that make him feel as if he’s walking through cotton, but also the heat that is growing near unbearable. He stays in the shade for a while, sitting on his bench. He goes over the talk he had with Harry, and in between remembering her words, or her arm around his shoulders, unbidden memories of Sherlock keep popping up. It’s hard to focus on one thing, to have just one single coherent thought. Sometimes he lets his eyes wander across the world around him. The sea looks endless today. 

After a while he notices Harry coming over to him barefooted, wearing her blue sports bikini and eating a _Magnum_ ice lolly. He can’t shake off the feeling that she’s checking in on him, trying to see how he’s holding up. She smells of sweet vanilla ice cream and rich, dark chocolate coating, of sun cream and seawater. 

She sits down next to him, holds out the ice cream and asks, “Hey Johnny. You want some?” 

“No, thanks.” He frowns. While the banana was great, his stomach still isn’t quite ready for a _Magnum,_ even after the hours that have passed. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, drawing circles in the sand with her big toe. 

“Nothing, really. Just… sitting here.” 

She keeps eating her ice cream, not saying anything. Harry’s circles in the sand are turning into eights. Eventually, she wipes it all off again with the sole of her foot. 

“It’s a lot, isn’t it,” she states. 

“It fucking well is.” 

Her hand searches for his, and squeezes it when she finds it. 

“So, where’s your man, John?” she asks as she licks the last bits of molten chocolate off the wooden _Magnum_ stick. She bumps his shoulder, “Did you talk to him?” 

“Not so sure if he’s my man,” John sighs. 

Admitting this makes him sadder than he’s anticipated, but at the same time, his heart beats wildly at daring to call Sherlock _my man._

Oh fuck, how I’d want that, he thinks as his heart beats even faster. He marvels at how far he’s come in these last few hours. How frightening and how good it feels. 

Harry turns her head, brushes her fringe from her eyes and looks at him. 

“He is, John. Have some faith. And do get your head out of your arse.” 

— 

John doesn’t see Sherlock at the beach when he goes to swim and snorkle later on, trying to lose himself in the cool blue sea and give his mind some rest. 

But his attempts at distracting himself aren’t working. He’s getting restless with the need to see Sherlock. And yet he’s so bloody nervous about it that he’s dreading it all the same. He doesn’t have the faintest clue what to tell him, but he knows he needs to tell him _something_ at least. 

The fact that Sherlock is nowhere to be found feel like an opportunity slipping through his fingers. He keeps wondering what the fuck Sherlock is up to. During the past days, Sherlock would occasionally vanish for a few hours, but John always spotted him at some point eventually, either on the beach or at the camping site, somewhere in this small piece of earth their world has shrunk to. Sherlock would always show up again. Worry starts brooding deep in John’s gut when Sherlock doesn’t appear. This doesn’t feel right, and it’s getting worse with every passing minute, just like the heat that won’t stop rising. 

He’s getting tired from swimming, so he decides to walk back to their spot on the beach. He sits on his towel, his chest still heaving. The sea is plain, glistening with sunlight, and throwing all his questions right back at him. John understands that he has to take responsibility that he gets the answers he needs. Without waiting for his swimming trunks or his hair to dry, he gets up and leaves the beach, and walks up straight to the tents of Sherlock, Eddie and James. 

“I’m not even sure he came back here last night. You seen him, James?” Eddie says when John asks them if they have any idea where Sherlock is. 

“I think he was here at some point in the morning. Just got something from his tent and then he’s left again. I was still half-asleep. He does that, John. He’s always been like that,” James replies. “We’ll tell him you asked about him though, alright?” 

“Yeah, thanks,” John says and turns to leave, clenching his jaw. 

He walks back towards his own tent, getting slower and slower. He doesn’t know where he’s even heading. He’s lost for what to do. He takes a look around. There are a few clouds scattered on the horizon. It’s strange to see clouds here, now, after all these days of endless sunshine. They weren’t there earlier, or were they? In the end, he goes back to beach and to Harry and Gemma. Suddenly he can’t stand being alone with his own thoughts, and his concern. 

They stay at the beach until the sun hangs low above the ocean, casting dramatic orange light between the clouds. They’re ragged and dark-grey now, towering high in places. 

In spite of his growing worries and his restlessness, John feels that it’s as if his life has been on pause while he was down here during the day, while he was out at sea or lying on his towel. There was nothing he could do. So he tried his best to ignore how the hours passed, how the time since Sherlock has been gone is getting longer and longer. 

They end up having dinner much later than usual, after it’s already getting dark. John stares at the blue gas flame of the camping stove while Harry stirs the tomato sauce. Later he eats without noticing what it tastes like, and without saying anything. 

Finally they walk to the campfire up the dune, because they always do. And because John will lose his mind if he spends another minute sitting there and wondering where Sherlock is, and what he has been doing all day. 

— 

John watches the sea and the horizon while they walk along the beach. The clouds have come closer, but in between, the stars are twinkling. They’re so bright, so close. It’s still hot enough that he’s sweating as he walks, and his t-shirt sticks to his back. It all feels surreal, the pressing, silent heat, Sherlock’s disappearance and John’s own troubled self. 

They’re not even halfway up the dune when John hears music from the direction of the fire. It’s not the intimate, gentle guitar music Arnel was playing last night. It’s louder, and more energetic. It’s a ghetto blaster playing, the bass and the drums thudding through the night. 

The closer they get, the more they hear of the music, the higher notes of the guitar, the singer’s voice. John knows the song, he’s heard it on Sherlock’s CD — must be The Smiths, _What Difference Does it Make._

He walks faster, leaving Harry and Gemma a few steps behind. And then he sees him. 

It feels as if John’s whole body was filled by his heartbeat, as if he was vibrating with it. 

Sherlock’s there, and he’s dancing, among a handful of other people. He’s completely lost in the music, dancing barefoot in the sand with closed eyes, moving as gracefully as it is possible to do with Indie rock music. He’s wearing his shorts low on his slim hips, and the Pink Floyd t-shirt. One curl is sticking to his temple, and his cheeks are red with heat. He’s sweating. It’s so fucking warm. 

Harry nudges John’s arm. She smiles encouragingly. “Come on.” 

John must have stopped dead. 

His heart is dancing, too — Sherlock’s here. John has no idea how he got here without walking past John’s tent, but he doesn’t care now. He’s just so bloody relieved, he almost laughs from the unsettled feeling, all the worries he’s had about Sherlock being gone. But, maybe it’s no wonder with the strange day he’s had with his talk with Harry, his bloody hangover and the his searching for Sherlock. 

“Come on, John. You’ll actually be able to see him better up close,” Harry says with a warm smile in her voice. 

“I… I guess I’ll just stay here for a bit, yeah?” 

Harry watches him for a moment. “Sure?” 

“Sure.” 

He doesn’t want to be up close. He wants to watch Sherlock from a distance, take him in while he’s on his own. He needs a moment with him like this, trying once again to understand it all a bit better, before — before Sherlock will look at him, and see what’s been going on in John’s mind all day. He will see it immediately, and he’ll know what’s on the table now. John has no idea how to go on from there, but he knows now that he wants to go on. With Sherlock. 

So he sits down in the sand in the darkness, a few feet away from the fire’s heat, away from the dancing people. He wipes sweat from his forehead, accidentally rubbing sand across his sticky, damp skin. 

The song ends, and the next one begins. It’s a slower, sadder one, Radiohead, and now John is sure that it actually is Sherlock’s CD in the ghetto blaster. 

Sherlock dances more slowly now, in sync with the music, but no less intense, no less vibrant than the way he’d been dancing before. He seems to be pulsing with the emotion of the song and John feels that it’s a marvel to watch him. 

Okay, John thinks. Look at him. That’s the man you’re — say it, Watson, fucking say it — that you’re in love with. 

He’s never been in love before. Not — not like this. He’s had crushes, and he’s liked girlfriends very much. But all of that has just been a shadow of what he’s feeling now. 

Excitement and nervousness kick in once more, making the insides of his forearms prickle so hard he starts rubbing them. He swallows against the nausea and the nerves in his stomach, and curses himself for forgetting to bring a bottle of water. He wishes he had something in his hands now, something to do, to distract him. He’s not going to have any alcohol tonight. Or ever again, possibly, he thinks, groaning. He considers having a cigarette, but smoking without Sherlock feels wrong, as if he’d miss the whole point of it. 

So he simply sits there, letting warm sand drizzle through his fingers. He breathes slowly, in and out, willing his heart to slow down a little. He fills his lungs with hot summer night air until they can take no more. He exhales and forces himself to continue his train of thought. 

The man I’m in love with. 

It’s still feels so weird, so new. He exhales a helpless laugh. 

And what if Sherlock feels the same? 

But how the fuck could Sherlock possibly want him? Still, if John can rely only the tiniest bit on what he’d felt when Sherlock showed him the sea sparkle, then — then there _is_ something going on between them. But Sherlock’s fucking brilliant, he’s good-looking, probably he’s even got money. And him? He’s just _John,_ simple, ordinary and average John from Hampshire, with divorced parents, cheap clothes and not enough money to study medicine. Nothing ever happens to him. 

He craves smoking now. He spots the tell-tale outline of a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of Sherlock’s cropped jeans. The fact that he knows exactly in which pocket Sherlock keeps his cigarettes almost makes him choke. 

The next song is Suede. John recognizes it immediately as _Animal Nitrate_. He likes the singer. More than _likes_ , actually, taking into consideration what he’s established about his sexuality today. He’s had a bloody crush on him ever since he saw their music video on MTV sometime last year. The singer’s androgynous, tall and slender, with dark hair and light skin. He’s dreamt about the fucking naked chest of that man. God, he even seems to have a _type._ He shakes his head at himself. 

He watches Sherlock, who is glowing with life and energy. His body is one fluid motion, capturing the music, bringing it to life and adding a whole new dimension to it. 

John watches his wiry muscles, outlined against the warm light of the fire, and the fresh sweat on the skin of his neck. His shirt slips up, and John catches a glimpse of the light skin of his belly. 

John’s breathing becomes shallow. 

He’s gazing at Sherlock dancing, watching his body move with the music, with his eyes closed and his lips ever so slightly parted. 

If he knew Sherlock would let him, John knows that… he’d want him. Like that. He’d want to touch him, run his fingers across his chest, along his throat. He’d kiss him, hard and messy. He’d touch him, fucking everywhere on his body. Have him touch his own body in return, if that is what Sherlock wants. 

There’s a low rumble of thunder in the distance, out at sea. There are more clouds now, dark and looming above them. John doesn’t even turn his head. 

He wants him. How could he ever have doubted that? 

Before John knows it, the song is already over. He sits there for a moment, waiting for something to happen, to ease the tension in the air. The first chords of the next song set in, and Sherlock shifts effortlessly into the new rhythm. 

John gets up and starts to walk towards the fire. He doesn’t have a plan, but he can’t sit here any moment longer. He might — he might ask Sherlock if he’d like to join him for a walk along the beach, for a cigarette on their bench. For one daring second he thinks about walking straight up to him and kissing him, right here. 

But the closer he gets, the more he starts to feel that something is wrong. John’s just a few feet away when he suddenly realizes Sherlock hasn’t once opened his eyes for more than three songs in a row, and while he seems to be just completely lost in the music, it’s still odd. 

John squints his eyes. A feeling of unease is creeping up his back. He’s been so fascinated watching Sherlock that he only now registers how unusual this feels — Sherlock, dancing like that. John never would have taken Sherlock for someone who dances in front of other people. He’s got the feeling Sherlock would never allow other people a glimpse of this part of him, there’s too much emotion in it, too much of himself. 

At that moment, Sherlock starts to fish the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, but his motions are strangely erratic. He’s losing synchronicity, and lacking the elegance of his dancing entirely. John stops and watches him. It’s too odd, all of this. There’s something alarming about it. 

Sherlock drops the cigarettes and bends down to pick them up, but his long fingers wrap around emptiness, and he misses the pack. When he finally succeeds, he takes a cigarette out with nervously trembling fingers and puts it between his lips. 

The music is still playing. The people are dancing, moving to the sound of Joy Division’s _Love Will Tear us Apart._

John steps closer, and closer. So close that it’s fucking weird that Sherlock doesn’t take any notice of him. He could stretch out his hand and touch him. Sherlock’s skin is reddened and slick with sweat, almost surreal in its intensity. When he lights his cigarette, John can finally see Sherlock’s eyes. His pupils are blown wide, his pale irises nothing but a slim ring around the blackness of his eyes. 

John calls his name, but Sherlock looks right through him with his madly dark and absent eyes. He drops the lighter. 

And then John understands. 

Sherlock’s high. 

He’s _high._

Worry explodes inside John, bordering even on panic. He wants to shake Sherlock until he comes to his senses, and John is already taking one last step towards him, but he stops dead. 

There’s also anger, boiling up dangerously in his gut, hot and searing, and burning him from the inside. Suddenly John can’t trust himself anymore, he can’t tell what will happen if he gets too close to him this very second. He’s got one thousand fucking questions — _Why? What did you take, Sherlock? How much was it? Do you need a doctor? Can you describe your symptoms? Where did you even get that shit?_ — but his anger is threatening to ban everything else to the back of his mind. 

_You fucking idiot,_ he wants to scream. He’s furious. And suddenly he feels like such a fool for wanting to kiss him, now, for all the thoughts he’s had today. For fucking coming out as bi, for fucking falling in love with him. And now Sherlock’s just — fucking _high._ Sherlock’s wasting himself, destroying himself like none of this even matters. 

John briefly closes his eyes and breathes. Stay calm, Watson. 

He grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s t-shirt, a bit too roughly maybe, and says his name, over and over again, until Sherlock looks at him. 

“John,” Sherlock finally says, and his voice sounds so weird that John once more has to fight the urge to throttle him. It sounds soft and wondering, as if it’s brimming with emotions. Sherlock is speaking as if he were far away, and there might be entire galaxies between them. John knows now that Sherlock’s out of reach. 

“I’m going to get help, Sherlock,” John says through gritted teeth. Sherlock looks at him, completely bewildered and so softly. So fucking softly. 

John takes another deep breath, trying to determine if Sherlock actually understands him. He’s got no idea. When John opens his mouth to speak again, undertones of fear and worry soften the anger in his voice. 

“What the fuck have you done, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock keeps looking at him, his chest heaving, and he’s sweating. John’s shocked at the insane heat Sherlock is radiating. He’s burning up, and John feels it where the knuckles of his fist are touching his chest. He looks him in the eyes once more and finds vulnerability there. And fear, too. 

John doesn’t know if he got through to Sherlock. He doesn’t know if Sherlock actually understood what he’s been saying. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, he doesn’t explain, he says nothing about the drugs, whatever shit he’s taken. 

From the corner of his eyes John notices lightning disrupting the night, out at sea. Thunder echoes across the ocean moments later. There’s a gush of wind, and it smells of petrichor. 

John lets go of Sherlock, turns, and walks away, feeling about to vomit. He has to get help, and it’s no use dragging Sherlock along, when he’s like this. He needs to act quickly. 

He’s scared. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suede's song [_Animal Nitrate_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i7mEB2wnDLQ) is a word play on [Amyl nitrite](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amyl_nitrite), a [popper](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poppers) drug often used by men who want to engage in anal sex. I've loved this song for 20 years and only found out now.


	10. Chapter 10

John scans the people dancing and talking around the campfire. Some are dark silhouettes against the fire, others are just dimly lit by the flames, and it’s difficult to recognise anyone’s face in the darkness. He turns, frantically searching through the inky night, and out at the grey sea. There’s a dense blanket of clouds now hanging low in the sky, and there are no more stars left to see. Above the sea a deep rumble echoes through the clouds, and John stops and stares for a moment as they’re lighting up with the flashes of the thunderstorm. The air feels electric, but nobody seems to notice. Here at the dune it’s still hot, the fire’s burning, and the music swallows most of the weather’s noise. 

John turns back to the fire. It’s radiating warm light, as if it’s trying to deceive him about the windstorm out at sea. Unease is keeping him firmly in its grip, and worry, anger and blunt panic are stretching out their icy fingers towards him. He’s got to do something about Sherlock. Fucking _now._

He looks around once more, desperately searching for a familiar face. _Harry._

He runs towards her. She’s on the other side of the campfire, standing next to Gemma and talking to the German girls they met a few nights before. John doesn’t wait until she notices him, but calls her name, grabbing her arm and roughly pulling her away from the others. 

“Harry—” he says, out of breath. 

“John, what the fuck? What’s going on?” 

He pulls Harry a few steps away from the others. 

“Sherlock’s high, Harry, he’s fucking high as a kite. I—” John tries to explain, wiping the sweat from his forehead, unable to keep his hands still. Harry’s eyes go wide as she listens to him, and her body tenses. 

“What? What did he take?” Harry asks. 

“I’ve no idea. He barely even said anything. I’ve got to get back to the camping site and call an ambulance.” 

“Is it that bad?” Harry asks, she’s worried. Gemma is coming closer, she must have noticed that something’s wrong. 

“How do I know? He’s got pupils like fucking saucers. He’s burning up with a fever, and I’m not sure if he even understood what I was saying to him. He’s — he’s dancing, over there.” He turns towards Sherlock, who is, indeed, still dancing. And who’s still so damn beautiful that it makes John’s stomach clench. He feels so bloody helpless right now. He hates this helplessness so much that he’s clenching his hands until his fingernails leave red imprints on the palms of his hands. 

He takes a deep breath and starts turning to leave, already about to head back to the camping site. 

“John, wait, _wait!_ ” Harry calls. Now it’s her who is gripping his arm. John goes rigid. 

“Wait — think about it, John. What’s going to happen? They’ll take him to the nearest hospital, and when he’s sober again he’ll end up in all sorts of trouble, police, everything.” 

_What?_

“What the fuck are you suggesting? We can’t leave him here like that!” John tries to wrench his arm out of Harry’s grip. He’s stronger than her, he knows he could be free in just a few seconds. But she’s Harry. She’s his sister. He has to hear her out. 

“I’m suggesting that before you have him carried off to hospital and pursued by the fucking French police and bloody taken away from you for the rest of the holidays, that you just wait and see what happens!” 

John stares at her for a moment, then looks up at the sky in exasperation, trying to think of a response. 

But before he can come up with anything to say, Harry continues, “As long as he’s conscious and responding, let’s wait. And as soon as he shows any sign that he’s getting worse, you go and call an ambulance all you like.” 

“That’s fucking irresponsible, Harry. What if he passes out? We’ve got no fucking clue what’s going on! He might be, I don’t know, _dead_ before the fucking ambulance even gets here!” 

She takes a deep breath, bracing herself. “He’s not going to die, John.” 

He can hear how Harry’s trying to calm him down. He forces himself to breathe slowly. He doesn’t even recognise himself anymore. Drugs scare him shitless. He’s seen some friends of one of his rugby mates getting lost in that vortex of drugs, alcohol, parties, and more drugs, harder drugs. He knew some of them, not very well, but still. They used to be nice, and apparently normal blokes, but in the end they vanished, either to hospitals or rehab, or to another, bigger city, where faster money was to be made, and more drugs were to be found. 

“How do you fucking know that?” he asks, sounding desperate. 

“Okay, what was he like, John?” Harry asks, a lot more composed now. 

John focuses, doing his best to answer Harry’s question. “He — his pupils were huge and black. His body felt fucking hot, like he’s got a fever. He was sweating, more than I’d have expected, even with the heat and the dancing. He said my name when I tried to talk to him and — and he seemed to be pretty emotional. Just, Christ, _high._ ” 

Harry rubs her hand across her face, and John recognises himself in that gesture. 

“I — I don’t know, John, but it sounds like extasy,” she says after a moment. 

“You’re sure?” Gemma asks. 

“I guess so. I’m not really an expert, am I,” Harry replies, sounding way too insecure for John’s liking. Anger starts welling up inside him again. 

“How do you even know that, Harry? Don’t you fucking tell me you’ve been taking this shit as well!” His voice is rising and he takes a step closer to her. 

“I haven’t, okay?” she says, getting louder, too, and straightens until she’s at eye-level with him. She glares at him. “Stop shouting at me, John, I haven’t fucking taken any drugs and I don’t plan to!” 

There are barely a few inches of space between their faces and they’re staring at each other with equal fervour. John sees the same anger and worries in Harry’s eyes. 

Finally Harry eases up a fraction and sinks back until her feet fully touch the ground again. She exhales. “You remember Lorna?” 

John squints his eyes. Lorna used to be a close friend of Harry’s. She was a bit weird though, he never quite knew what to think of her. Now he realises he hasn’t seen or heard of her in ages. Wait — God, Harry must have dated her, back when they spent every weekend and every free minute together. Of course. 

“Lorna went to those huge techno raves sometimes. And she used to take extasy quite regularly. That’s… that’s why we split up, in the end.” She casts a quick glance at Gemma. “I’ve seen her high on extasy a few times. I know the signs, what it looks like.” 

John frowns, shaking his head. “Harry, I can’t sit here and do nothing based on how Lorna used to react to extasy…” 

“Listen, I read up on it because I was fucking scared about that shit, too, okay?” Harry says. After a short pause, she adds, “Lethal overdoses are really quite rare. Dehydration poses a threat, just like overhydration does, because sometimes people get thirsty and don’t stop drinking water.” 

John listens. This is something he hadn’t known about Harry. He’s suddenly fiercely glad that she’s here, no matter how weird her plan sounds. He’s glad that she has at least something resembling an idea of what might be going on, and he admires her ability to stay calm. 

He sighs, it should be him who reacts like that. He’s the one who wants to be a fucking doctor. 

“We should keep an eye on his body temperature, although that’s no wonder since it’s so fucking hot and he’s dancing like mad,” Harry carries on. “He might be very emotional right now, Lorna always got super-cuddly. And she felt like shit when she eventually came down, cried and everything. But other people just get tired,” Harry adds, sounding more sure of herself now. 

“Nothing worse?” John inquires. 

“Usually not, if the dose he took was reasonable.” 

“And what is a reasonable dose, Harry?” he asks, incapable of keeping the edge of despair out of his voice. 

Harry doesn’t reply. She presses her lips together in silent frustration and just keeps looking at him. 

“How long does it last? The trip?” he asks eventually, sounding tired. 

“Again it depends on what he’s actually taken,” Harry replies in a low voice. “You never fucking know what’s in those pills, how much of the drug, and what they’ve used to cut it. Maybe three or four hours, but I’m really, really not sure. The drug should be out of his system sometime tomorrow.” 

John exhales. “Okay.” He rubs his hand across his face. “Okay,” he says again. 

“We should try to take him back to his tent. Make sure he drinks, but not too much. Get him to sleep at some point,” Harry proposes. “If things get out of hand, we’ll call an ambulance.” 

This is madness. This is fucking madness, John thinks, and sighs, but he walks through this plan in his mind. They could take Sherlock back to his tent and look after him, make sure he stays hydrated and that he sleeps. But then John can’t help but picture everything going wrong, and that feeling of helplessness is strangling him again. He can barely breathe when he asks in a whisper, “What if it goes wrong, Harry?” 

Harry just looks at him. There’s hope in her eyes, and he wants to believe that she knows that somehow he and Sherlock will get out of this shit unharmed. She takes a deep breath. 

“It won’t go wrong. The moment he loses consciousness or anything we’ll call the ambulance.” 

He turns away from the fire and looks at the sea. The sky is black. There’s lightning inside the menacing clouds, illuminating them from the inside and casting a blue-grey light on the sea, restless now, and windswept by a storm that hasn’t yet arrived. 

He sure as hell doesn’t want Sherlock gone for the rest of the holidays, not now, not after everything that’s happened. He curses himself for being so self-centered. 

But could he risk that? Even with Harry’s estimate, he still doesn’t know what’s going on with Sherlock, if it really is extasy that he’s taken. He turns to look at him. Sherlock’s still dancing, swaying slowly with the music. His eyes are half-open now, but John can’t tell if he’s still as high as he was earlier. There’s no fucking way to tell what’s going to happen. It’s fucking infuriating. 

If everything goes well and Sherlock doesn’t have any medical problems apart from the fact that he’s taken drugs, he’d still be facing some sort of shit with the French police afterwards. John hasn’t got the faintest idea what this would mean. 

So the question remains the same. Can he fucking risk it? 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He silently prays for this night to end well. It’s all he can do, and he makes his decision. 

Finally, he turns back to Harry and Gemma. 

“Let’s go and find James and Eddie,” he says faintly. 

Harry takes his hand and squeezes it firmly, a silent promise that they’ll get through this shit together. 

He spots James and Eddie at the other side of the fire, sipping beer and talking to Arnel. 

It’s Harry who tells them about what’s going on, so John doesn’t really have to do much. Luckily, Eddie and James are still quite sober, too, and they listen, growing more and more tense as Harry speaks. 

“I’d say we take him back to his tent. John says he’s burning up, so he should stop dancing and drink something. Will you help us?” she asks when she’s finished explaining. 

“Of course,” James replies. There’s an air of duty to the way he talks, an unspoken and unquestioned obligation to help Sherlock, or a strange kind of comraderie. John can’t pinpoint it, and he doesn’t question it, he’s just glad James and Eddie will support them. 

“Do you have any idea if he’s done that before — taken extasy, I mean? How he’s reacted to it?” John asks, trying to mask his nervousness as he speaks. 

“As far as I know, he’s never taken anything like it. From time to time he smokes weed and he usually takes it pretty fucking well, but that’s not helping right now, is it,” James says. 

Eddie’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

“Well, shit, I — I’ve taken extasy,” he admits after a moment, and he doesn’t sound exactly proud of it. “And from what you say, I think I agree, it might be extasy.” He looks at Sherlock. “It isn’t harmless, and we’d better keep an eye on him. But he could be just fine.” 

“I’ve got the key for the shop,” Arnel adds in his rumbling Spanish accent, looking at John. “There’s a telephone. We don’t have to alert anyone at the reception, I can call an ambulance from there if needed.” 

“Great, thanks. That’s good to know,” John says. 

A bolt of lightning, closer now, flashes blue light across the dune, blinding all of them for a fraction of a second. Only a heartbeat later, loud thunder disrupts the night, and fat raindrops start to fall. John feels them cool and wet on his head, running down his neck, and he has to wipe them from his face with the back of his hand. There’s a cold wind now, and the rain is getting heavier with every second. It doesn’t take long until the noise of myriads of raindrops splashing on the sand is overpowering the music. 

“Let’s go and get Sherlock,” Harry says, turning towards the fire. 

People are leaving the dune in a hurry to escape the rain, and someone stops the music. The fire is being rapidly diminished, hissing with steam. A few more minutes, and it will be gone. 

Sherlock is surprised and confused by what’s happening. He doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t understand, either. He takes a few steps backwards into the darkness, but finally he allows them to manhandle him away from the dying fire and down the dune, along the beach and back to the camping site. John huffs a helpless, desperate laugh when he thinks that at least Sherlock can walk properly. Carrying him up the path to the camping site would have taken them ages. 

It does take ages, though, and Sherlock keeps wriggling out of their grip and turning around, not seeing the point of going back to his tent. It’s only when he’s soaked with rain and even his cigarettes are too wet too smoke that he stops asking _why_ over the noise of the thunderstorm. 

Somehow, they finally make back it to Sherlock’s tent. The camping site is deserted, everybody else must have found shelter inside their tent. Nobody takes any notice of them. They stop there, briefly, planning what to do next. 

“I’ll go inside and keep an eye on him, right?” Harry says. “But the tent’s too small for all of us. Eddie — you know about extasy as well. Care to join me?” Harry speaks over the thunder, and her face is lit up by lightning. She looks at John. “If anything happens, I’ll call you immediately, Johnny.” 

“Okay, come on, John, then we’ll stay in mine for now,” James announces, not giving John any chance to protest. “Gemma, Arnel, how about you?” 

Gemma looks at Harry and nods. Arnel takes a step closer to James’s tent, making clear that he, too, isn’t going to leave. 

John wants to argue and insist that he stays with Sherlock, he’s already taking a quick breath, about to voice his opinion, when he meets Harry’s gaze. Do as I say, the look in Harry’s eyes says, and don’t ask. Please, Johnny. 

He exhales and stays silent, just looking at her for the duration of a few heartbeats. Finally, he turns and follows James to climb inside. A moment later, Gemma and Arnel are coming in, too. 

This tent is a bit larger than Sherlock’s, but they’re still sitting closely together in the darkness, in their damp clothes, with wet and sandy feet. The thunderstorm must be right above them by now. James stats to zip the tent closed and John is about to stop him. He doesn’t want to bother with zippers and closed doors in case he needs to get to Sherlock. But he can still see that James has to close it unless he wants rain gushing inside, so John sits back and swallows down his protests. 

It’s so loud with the heavy rain and thunder that there’s no use talking. John just sits there, arms around his legs, trying to take up as little space as possible. The air is still warm inside the tent, and getting damp from their exhales, from the humidity of the rain and their wet clothes. 

John rakes his fingers through his hair, dripping with water, trying to get used to the idea that he’s going to spend the night here, like this. And then he prays that he actually will, and that they don’t have to call an ambulance for Sherlock. 

The feeling of these holidays is utter shite, he thinks while the air outside the tent is cracking with thunder. 

John has never seen a thunderstorm this bad in England. It’s getting worse instead of ebbing off, and he quickly loses track of time. It isn’t divided into seconds, minutes and hours any more. The only relevant unit of measurement is now the span between lightning and thunder, and between thunder and the next lightning flaring up above their tent. Sometimes it all happens at once, a cascade of thunder, ripping the sky like cannon beats, while the night is bright white with lightning, even inside the tent. 

The thunderstorm takes forever, and everybody is silent with the worry about Sherlock. 

He wonders what Sherlock’s doing now, how he feels. He almost gets up to go to Sherlock’s tent a couple of times, but he always stays where he is. There’s nothing he can do, right now. 

Instead, he stares at the dim, shady lining of the tent and thinks of the time he’s spent with Sherlock — swimming with him, watching him at the beach, sitting next to him at the campfire or in front of John’s tent during dinner. 

He remembers every single cigarette they’ve shared. How he’s noticed Sherlock’s lips touching the filter every fucking time. He thinks of the night when Sherlock showed him the sea sparkle, of that feeling when he’d almost kissed him. He thinks of the weight of Sherlock’s head against his shoulder, of the warmth of Sherlock’s body next to his. He thinks of all the times he’s made Sherlock smile, or even laugh. It’s unbelievable that it’s been just, what, _a week_ since they’ve known each other. 

He’s glad nobody is able to hear his shaky breathing in the storm. 

I’m fucking in love, John thinks, and he’s aching with longing for Sherlock. He wants to be close to him, see him, touch him, feel him. It’s never been like this before, being in love. 

He’d succeeded earlier in pushing his worries to the back of his mind while he was thinking of Sherlock. But now they’re back, wringing his gut with the uncertainty of how it all will turn out. He keeps telling himself that Harry would have called him if the situation had already got out of hand. 

He tries to come up with an explanation for why Sherlock even took the drugs. Sherlock was so out of place, dancing like that. And although it had been beautiful, it didn’t feel as if it was somethings he’d normally do — dancing, like that. And the drugs, John hopes. 

What if, just hypothetically speaking, what if Sherlock actually is interested in me, he thinks while his heart starts beating louder. What were the last days like for him? He showed me the sea sparkle and I — I felt like kissing him. He didn’t pull back. Maybe I’d have kissed him. 

He bites his lips, trying not to linger on the memory, but to forge ahead. 

Focus, Watson, this is important. Okay. So we might have kissed. 

He takes a deep breath. 

And then — thinking of the day after that, he groans. 

Then he fucking evaded him for the whole day because he was so busy being confused. 

He pictures Sherlock at the campfire that night, telling John that he had a crush on a man. Sherlock told him that he’s attracted to men, enough to have a crush on a man. 

And John? He panicked and ran away ten minutes later and got fucking drunk. And yesterday he needed some time to figure things out and Sherlock didn’t see him for another whole day. So if Sherlock’s interested in John, Sherlock must have thought that he — that he doesn’t want him. That John would reject him. 

Oh my fucking God, John thinks, hiding his face in his hands. Is this why Sherlock took that shit? 

John fears he might be sick again. 

It’s my fault, he curses himself. I’m such a fucking idiot. 

John rests his head on his arms and closes his eyes. 

Another flash of lightning explodes right above their heads, and the air vibrates with the thunder’s deafening noise. All four of them raise their heads in alarm until they realise it’s still just the thunderstorm. 

John takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, he vows that if they somehow make it through this night, if Sherlock is well and if they — whatever _they_ might mean after this night — are okay, that he’ll do everything he can to put things right again with Sherlock. 

When the rain gets softer after a long time, and the thunder subsides, John hears Harry talking to Sherlock, barely audible over the noise of raindrops falling on the tent. 

“ _Sherlock, try and sleep for a while. Eddie said you didn’t sleep at all last night. Here, drink some water. Good. And now lie down, and close your eyes, Sherlock. Yes, everything’s going to be alright.”_

She sounds just like their mum had when they were small, when they’d woken up after a nightmare, scared and disoriented. She’s soothing Sherlock the way their own mum used to soothe them. 

John hears Sherlock murmur something in reply, but he’s speaking too low for John to understand him. 

John’s chest floods with relief. Sherlock’s talking, and from what he can tell, he just sounds tired. His voice is lacking the weird softness from when John interrupted his dancing, or the panicky agitation John heard when they were trying to take him away from the dune. He exhales, feeling some of the tension seep from his body. 

They still don’t speak much in James’s tent. Sometimes they drink some water, passing the bottle from one to the next. Their faces are still being lit by the lightning, but it’s lost its anger and its strength, the storm is finally moving away. 

“He means a lot to you, doesn’t he,” James says eventually. It’s not a question. 

John furrows his brow. He isn’t nearly ready to discuss this with anyone else, except maybe for Harry, so all he says is, “Yes.” 

Arnel looks up at John in the darkness, and Gemma smiles at him. James takes a sip from the water bottle. 

“Good,” James says and drinks again. “That’s good.” 

A long time later, Gemma’s dozed off, and James and Arnel are talking in low voices, in French. John doesn’t listen. 

Eventually, Sherlock’s tent is being zipped open and someone walks over to James’s tent and opens the entry. 

“Hi,” Harry says, peeking inside. It’s still raining, and a few droplets glisten on her face. She looks hopeful. 

“Hey, Harry. How is he?” John asks. 

“He’s been sleeping for an hour or so. He’s fine. He’s cooled down, he drank one bottle of water and he seems to be getting back to normal.” 

John sighs with relief. 

“I’ll stay with him a little longer, just to be on the safe side,” Harry adds. 

“I think I’m going to sleep then,” Gemma says and rises to leave the tent. Arnel nods, and follows her. 

“All the best. If you need me, I’ll be in my room, okay?” Arnel says before he vanishes in the night. 

“Hey, you get some sleep, too, yeah, Johnny?” Harry looks at him. “You’ll sort out everything else in the morning, right?” 

John looks at Harry. She nods in the direction of his tent. “Come on, John. Go to sleep.” 

A few minutes later, John sits in the door of his tent, looking out at the water gathering in sandy puddles in front of the entry. He listens to the rain while his limbs are getting heavy. Eventually he stretches out on his sleeping mat and rests his head on one propped up arm. The noise of the rain gets lighter, turning into a curtain of soft raindrops, swaying with the breeze from the sea. 

His eyes are burning with exhaustion. 

Just for one moment, he tells himself as he closes his eyes, and buries his head in the crook of his elbow. 

— 

He wakes to the sound of someone walking past his tent. 

Soon, there are more steps, another person must be approaching John’s tent. John rubs his eyes and lifts his head as the steps come closer. The light has changed, a promise of dawn is tugging at the night’s darkness. The spell of the night is broken, and morning will come. For the first time since John has been here, it’s cold. 

A moment later, Eddie kneels down in front of the tent’s entry. 

“Hello, John. Sherlock’s woken up. I thought I’d tell you.” 

John wide awake now. He rubs his arms, he fell asleep in his damp clothes, and his skin feels icy. 

“Oh. Was that him, a moment ago? Where has he gone? How is he?” It’s just a guess that it might have been Sherlock. But — it sounded like him, the gait. Even though John was half asleep, he’s almost sure he recognised his steps. 

John’s wide awake now, and he needs to go after Sherlock. He’s fucking freezing, but there’s no time to change into dry clothes, so he turns and pulls his grey rugby hoodie out of his backpack. 

“He went down to the beach. He’s okay,” Eddie says. He looks tired, John can spot it even in the darkness. 

“Is he still high?” 

“No. He’s fine, he’s okay, John, as I said.” 

He bloody isn’t, he’s fucking taken drugs! John thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Why did he leave?” 

“He woke up and asked for you.” Eddie says looking down at his feet. “I told him you were sleeping now, but that you’ve been worried about him.” 

“And then?” 

“He just left. He seemed to be upset, but — well. Not the way he was last night. He really is back to normal.” 

“I’ll talk to him.” 

“Do that. Get him back, John.” 

He meets Eddie’s gaze for a moment and wonders how much they all know. Harry’s always told him he’s a bad liar and that his emotions show on his face. 

“Thanks, Eddie. For your help,” John says. 

Eddie smiles a lopsided smile and turns to leave. 

John gets up. He crawls out of his tent and pulls his hoodie closer around his body against the chilly air. He hurries past Harry’s and Gemma’s tent to the path down to the beach. He isn’t tired anymore, not at all. It’s still cloudy, it’s windy and the sand under his feet is wet from the night’s rain. 

He scans the dim beach for Sherlock as he runs down the path, taking two steps at once on the wooden stairs. He’s never seen the sea here like this. It’s charcoal grey with white, foamy crests at the top of the waves. It’s rough and raw and unforgiving. And it’s still a fucking beauty. 

“Thank God,” John breathes when he spots Sherlock farther down the dark beach, turned in the opposite direction of the dune. Sherlock’s standing at the shore now, watching the grim grey waves. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes, they are probably as damp as John’s. He must be freezing. 

John tries to run through the wet sand, but he’s barefoot, as always, and it’s bloody exhausting. The way to Sherlock seems to be getting longer and longer as he struggles along the beach. 

Sherlock doesn’t notice him. 

John’s nervous. He’s sure that Sherlock will look at him and know John’s fucking in love with him, and everything that has happened since last night will stand between them. John doesn’t have any idea how to deal with it, how to solve this. He just has to try. That’s all he can do. Try, and hope it will work. 

“Hey! Hey, Sherlock,” John calls, out of breath, when he’s close enough. 

Sherlock doesn’t react and pictures of last night creep up John’s spine, of Sherlock being high and out of reach. He suddenly finds himself praying that Sherlock really is sober again. 

“Sherlock!” he says again, hopefully loud enough to tear Sherlock away from the sea. And then, finally, Sherlock turns and looks at him. And Sherlock’s there, he really is. He’s not high anymore, of bloody course he isn’t, it’s been fucking hours since he took whatever bullshit it was _._ Sherlock’s eyes are back to normal and he looks so familiar, so very much like Sherlock, that John has to fight the urge to walk straight up to him and touch him, hold him, feel as much of Sherlock’s body against his own as possible. To run his fingers across his face. 

Sherlock looks endlessly tired, vulnerable and yet defiant. He’s pale in the faint light of the breaking dawn and there are grey circles under his eyes. 

“Hey,” John says again. He stops at an arm’s length from Sherlock. Or maybe it’s two arms’ lengths, maybe they both have to reach out until they can touch each other. 

Sherlock turns away. 

John’s heart clenches, but he forces himself to take a deep breath. “Sherlock. Talk to me. Please.” 

Sherlock keeps staring at the sea. 

“What — what was that last night?” John asks. 

Sherlock looks down at a spot in front of him, where the white foam of the waves crumbles on the cold, wet sand. 

“I was dancing, John. Holidays. People dance. Having fun,” Sherlock says, and he sounds both exhausted and defiant. 

“It didn’t quite look like fun to me. What did you take?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Another wave is rolling in, and it bathes Sherlock’s ankles in seawater, washing up sand over his feet. 

“What was it, Sherlock? What?” John asks more urgently now. He tries not to sound demanding, but he needs to know. 

Sherlock rakes a hand into his chaotic curls. An expression of frustration flickers across his face. 

“Extasy. It was one small, purple pill of extasy. Happy now?” 

“No, I’m not happy! Why, Sherlock? Why did you take fucking extasy?” 

John realises that his voice is rising with his despair to hear Sherlock’s reasons, and he prays that it was something else that has made Sherlock take drugs, that it wasn’t him. 

“Why is that your business, John?” Sherlock spits out. “Why do you care? In barely more than one week you will go back to your tedious little life in Hampshire, to your school and to your rugby team, to your _friends._ And I will go back to my life and for all the credit you’re giving it, with public school and ballet classes and everything, it’s still just as fucking tedious and small as yours, and I will have no one, and still have to deal with it, so why should any of us even _bother?_ ” 

He sounds more and more venomous towards the end, and his last words are full of loathing. And sadness. 

_Ballet classes._

John is taken aback, he didn’t know that. Of course he didn’t. In spite of all their talking he knows so little about Sherlock, he’s never told John much about his life back in England. John hasn’t had any idea that Sherlock feels this alone, this lost. And that Sherlock doesn’t trust John to — to want him, now and after the holidays. It suddenly occurs to John that Sherlock might not have been able to see what’s been going with John with just one look. He feels guilty for expecting Sherlock to read him like an open book and to relieve him of the task of explaining his feelings. 

Sherlock turns away from the sea and walks past John. He slumps down on the sand a few feet from John, wraps his arms around his knees, and buries his head on his forearms. He looks lost, sitting there alone in the sand. And desperate. 

John walks towards him until he’s very close. He sinks down on his knees in front of him. 

But as John kneels there in the sand in front of Sherlock, he’s suddenly unsure of what to do. Finally he reaches out one hand to touch his hair. Sherlock doesn’t draw back. John brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Hey,” he says, and strokes Sherlock’s arm. His skin is chilly. “Hey.” 

After a moment, Sherlock lifts his head, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. He looks so tired. 

John wants to say more, wants to tell him that, no, Sherlock will _not_ have no one — he’ll have him, John. And that John will of course bother, he’ll always bother, because there’s no way he could not care about Sherlock. 

But language fails him, completely. 

He wants to say, I’m in love with you, Sherlock. I’m so fucking in love with you. 

But the words that he hears himself softly say instead are, “Sherlock, why the fuck did you take extasy?” 

He’s saying it just as softly as he would have told him that he’s in love with him. It’s the most he can do to convey his feelings. 

Sherlock remains silent for a few heartbeats. When he finally speaks, his voice sounds broken. “Because it was available.” 

“But—” John lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s arm. He takes another deep breath and whispers, _“Why?”_

Sherlock still isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at John’s hand on his arm. He bites his lips for a moment. 

“Because I tried to tell you and you panicked.” 

John closes his eyes and swallows hard. 

After a moment, when he can breathe again, he shifts a bit closer, until his knees are touching Sherlock’s toes. He lifts Sherlock’s chin up with two fingers, as gently as possible. 

John would never before have trusted his heart to be able to beat this hard and still survive. He feels like he’s walking towards the edge of a cliff — he’s prepared to fall, to lose it all and die when his body is smashed on the ground, because he can’t be sure he will be able to spread his wings and fly. He can’t be sure that they’ll carry him. He’s scared as fuck, and still he is determined to do it, to step off the edge. 

He’s so close to him. He lifts Sherlock’s head a little more with his trembling hand. When Sherlock looks at him, he can see that the whites of his eyes are reddened, and the beautiful, indefinable colour of his irises is even more intense. John discovers a tiny brown spot in his left eye, right above the pupil. There’s so fucking much to discover. 

The look in Sherlock’s eyes is tearing John apart. He has to make it go away, he has to show Sherlock everything he feels, how much he means to him. How much he cares for him, and how much he wants him. 

He wipes a tear off Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb and leans in. 

The second their mouths touch, John moves to brush his lips against Sherlock’s, as tenderly as possible, and his mind goes blank. 

He’s so close to Sherlock now that he can breathe him in, the smell of his skin and his hair, and of the sea breeze clinging to his curls and that faint remainder of smoke from the camp fire. John kisses him, and stays there, resting against Sherlock’s lips with his own. 

They are every bit as soft as he’s imagined. 

With a shaky sigh, Sherlock finally kisses back. John feels it as a light press against his own lips, and it gives his stomach that feeling of falling again, of weightless, perfect joy. 

Sherlock exhales, John can feel the warm air brush across his cheek. And then, Sherlock opens his mouth. He allows John to taste him. He kisses John tenderly, tentatively, with a few soft, slow swipes of his tongue against John’s. 

Sherlock tastes slightly salty. He tastes like tears and seawater. 

_Oh,_ is all John can think. It’s the only sound that escapes the back of his throat, _oh,_ low and helpless and amazed. John cups Sherlock’s head, and without even thinking about it, he threads his fingers into his curls, and holds him, kissing him still. 

He feels Sherlock tremble beneath his touch, breathing slightly faster as the kiss grows more heated. 

God, it’s _this_ that John has imagined, it’s _this_ that he hoped for that night when they’ve been naked in the sea. 

Suddenly, the sky above them opens up, and John shivers at the drops of water on his skin as it starts to rain again. It’s that gentle rain than sometimes comes up in the very early morning hours, the kind of rain that makes John curl up in his bed, pull his blanket closer around his body and listen to the soft noise of the raindrops. 

They stay there, just like that, until their clothes are soaking wet. John pulls Sherlock closer, as they continue to kiss, touching each other’s hands, fingers and arms, as if they were a miracle. As if all of this was a miracle. 

John hears the sounds of their wet lips over the frothing waves. They’re kissing slowly at first, they’re still getting used to each other. Everything about this kiss feels right. John doesn’t even once think about the fact that this is a boy he’s kissing, and he doesn’t compare this kiss to the first kisses he’s shared with his girlfriends. He’s kissing Sherlock. 

He feels arousal building up inside his body, far away under his skin. It’s an underlying pulse, not quite palpable yet, but he gets an inkling of what he might be capable of feeling for Sherlock. How much he might want him. It feels like watching a tsunami rising out at sea, miles and miles off the shore. 

John opens his eyes and draws back to catch his breath. Raindrops are falling on Sherlock’s face, mixing with the tears, clinging to his curls, glistening silvery and making his hair look even darker. He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful it’s breaking John’s heart. He leans back in, and kisses him again. 

“Don’t you fucking do that again, Sherlock. Take drugs. Please,” John pleads, a whisper against Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He pulls John closer instead, and buries his head in the crook of his neck. He kisses John’s neck as John holds him. John gasps, he feels the sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his neck down his spine. 

A shiver runs through Sherlock’s body, and another one, more violent even. 

”Are you cold?” 

Sherlock’s voice sounds rough. “A bit.” 

John presses a kiss to his wet curls. He knows they shouldn’t stay here for much longer, in their wet clothes. He remembers his longing to be close to Sherlock, to feel him, touch him, every fucking inch of his body. 

Sherlock looks at him, he meets his gaze for the first time since they’ve kissed. He’s smiling. 

“Let’s go back,” John says, and instead of saying something, Sherlock kisses him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word about how to deal with someone who has taken extasy/MDMA/Molly: In spite of doing my research and reading up on it, I actually have no idea about it. Harry's (and John's) way to deal with Sherlock while he's high is the way that worked best for me _within this story._ But that doesn't mean I'd advise anyone to do the same when they meet someone who might have taken extasy or other drugs. Tbh, I guess I'd have called the ambulance, I don't trust these drugs at all.
> 
> Also, I don't know if someone high on extasy would really behave the way Sherlock does here. Let's just pretend it works like that, okay?  
>   
> \--  
>   
> I've had to make a minor adjustment in chapter 1: This story is now set in August 1994 (not July). I'm plotting further chapters and checked the time line again. :)


	11. Chapter 11

John kneels in the wet sand in front of Sherlock, and he starts to shiver with the cold. He runs a thumb across Sherlock’s left eyebrow. Sherlock’s looking at him, still smiling cautiously. It’s the first time Sherlock smiles since — what? The night before yesterday, maybe? It’s been far too long. 

John leans in to kiss him again. It’s all so new. Every kiss is a revelation and adds something new to what John knows about Sherlock. These are the sounds Sherlock makes during kissing, this is how he tastes. This is the softness of his lips, this is the shape of his jaw, this is how he tilts his head. 

And this — John’s breath hitches at the shift of emotions in their kiss — is this what it’s like when Sherlock lets desire seep into it? Is this how it feels when Sherlock _wants?_

After a few moments, John draws back, already panting. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and when he opens them, they’ve gone dark with emotion. 

They have to get back up to the camping site, _now._ John licks his lips, rises to his feet and stretches out his hand to help Sherlock up. 

Sherlock doesn’t let go of John’s hand on their way back. Instead, he keeps his hand in John’s, wrapping it entirely. John can’t stop running his thumb across Sherlock’s knuckles, and Sherlock presses his hand cautiously in reply. John’s can’t quite believe he’s doing this — touching Sherlock’s hand, holding it as they walk. His hand feels even bigger than it looks, nothing like the small, tender hands he’s held before. 

John’s nervous. He tries to keep his mind blank and not think about what might happen next. He doesn’t want to picture it, he doesn’t want to jinx it, for God’s sake. 

He wants Sherlock. He wants him in many ways. He wants to make sure he’s okay, for him to laugh again, to see the excitement in his eyes he’d seen when they were swimming amidst the sea sparkle. He wants Sherlock close, with his head on his shoulder, the warm weight of his body pressed against his own. And, yes, he _wants_ him. Like that. 

He draws in a deep breath, taking a look at the world around them as they walk along the beach holding hands, shoulders touching. It’s slowly getting lighter in spite of the rain and the clouds, that seems to hang higher in the sky now. The pale morning light gently adds some colour to the faint, monochromatic dawn. The pebble grey sea is tinged jade now, beautiful and wild as it rolls in on the eggshell beach. The dark green of the pines on top of the hill is growing a little more vivid now in the new light, and the bleached wooden stairs on the path up to the camping site regain some of their former warm tone. The shore is wild and untamed like this. Maybe it’s even more fascinating, more enticing than it is on a sunny day. 

Sherlock’s hand is warming up a little with John’s touch, the chill of the night slowly fading. By sudden impulse, John turns towards Sherlock as they walk, presses his nose against his upper arm and buries it in the fabric of his t-shirt for a fleeting moment. He hopes this isn’t too much, too intimate. But he’s so fucking glad Sherlock’s here with him, and that he’s okay again. 

In wordless reply, Sherlock nudges his nose against John’s hair. The intimacy of the gesture cries out for more, for being closer, for wrapping their arms around each other and feeling each other entirely. All the times they’ve walked up here, connected by the cords of Sherlock’s earphones, have been rehearsals for this morning. 

The further they get on the path up the hill, the more John’s heart beats wildly against his ribcage, and the more his stomach feels like it’s falling again. 

Sherlock seems to be just as nervous, because he sounds shy when he speaks, only a few steps before they reach the camping site and the bench. 

“I — I don’t want to be alone now,” he says in a low voice, just a whisper against the sound of the rain and the waves. 

“I’m not leaving you alone, Sherlock,” John replies, taken aback by the very idea of it. He says it with absolute certainty, as if he’s stating that the earth is going around the sun. I’m not leaving you alone now or ever again, he thinks. 

John hears Sherlock’s relieved exhale even over the crash of the waves tumbling against the beach. He looks at Sherlock, and he knows with absolute clarity that he will take him to his tent now _._ It’s the right thing, it’s the fucking only possible thing to do. And so John walks the last few steps towards his tent, taking Sherlock with him, and never letting go of his hand. 

Everything is silent on the camping site, nobody is up at this hour between nighttime and daylight. Gemma’s tent is zipped closed, she and Harry must be fast asleep after the restless night. John opens his tent and takes a small step back, allowing Sherlock in first. John’s heart beats fiercely in his chest. 

Sherlock’s gaze flickers across John’s face. There’s the tiniest timid smile as Sherlock exhales once more, and then he climbs inside. 

John follows him. Inside his tent the light is dim, and it’s messy. His backpack is shoved into one of the corners and his sleeping bag lies on top of the narrow sleeping mat, just the way he left it earlier. A few clothes are strewn across the small tent floor, and a water bottle, his torch and his book are scattered on the ground among the debris of camping supplies. 

Sherlock sits down next to John’s sleeping bag and briefly meets John’s eyes, when John turns around after closing the tent. John immediately sees that he’s shivering again. He sits down next to the entrance, not quite sure what to do. The tent feels weirdly small with the two of them in here. 

“You really should get rid of those wet clothes. You’ll catch a bloody cold,” John says quickly, maybe too quickly — but he’s just trying to make sure Sherlock’s okay, he really is. “But — wait, wait, maybe we should head to your place first, get you some dry—,” John adds in an attempt to put things right. He tries not to sound as if he just wanted to get Sherlock undressed as fast as possible — which is, to make it all a little more complicated, quite exactly what he actually wants. 

But John stops mid-sentence when Sherlock suddenly takes off his shirt. It lacks the daring intimacy of getting to see a bra and a soft, small waist, it lacks the promise of breasts — because it’s much more. This is unchartered territory for him, these are unknown waters. It’s Sherlock. Goosebumps are covering his skin, and his nipples are peaked with cold, small and dusky pink. John wants to stroke his fingers across them. It’s the first time he’s seen him bare-chested so up close, and it’s a fucking marvel. 

John inhales deeply. Whatever — his heart skips at a beat at this thought — _whatever’s_ going to happen, he can’t stay in his wet clothes. So he unzips his hoodie, cold with rain, and shakes it off his shoulders. He takes off his damp t-shirt, too, shuddering as he feels the cool morning air on his naked skin. He’s pretty sure Sherlock noticed how his chest is rising and falling with quick and shallow breathing, with so much nervousness he threatens to trip over his torch as he undresses. He looks at Sherlock and finds him breathing just like John is, just as nervous and uncertain. 

John takes a quick look around. They’re never going to fit on his sleeping mat together. He shoves his sleeping bag aside, takes his two large beach towels and spreads them across the sleeping mat. It’s better than nothing, he thinks. He doesn’t explain, and Sherlock doesn’t ask what he’s doing, Sherlock just shifts to make some room when John puts the towels on the mat. John zips the sleeping bag open and puts it on top of the towels like a blanket. It’s probably still too small, but, well. It will have to do. 

John looks at Sherlock again, biting his lip, and hoping he isn’t implying too much. Sherlock swallows and looks down, blushing. John is almost thinking that, fuck, this _has_ been too much, damn it, he should have— 

But Sherlock is already opening the fly of his shorts, and pushes them down his legs. 

John can’t help but stare. Sherlock’s boxers are black in the pale, soft light inside John’s tent, and his almost naked legs look even longer with so much bare skin. Ballet lessons, John thinks, trying to picture Sherlock spinning in a pirouette, a graceful swirl of long limbs and muscles. 

“Here,” John says, suddenly remembering that Sherlock is freezing, and hands him the sleeping bag. “I — I’ll just…” John makes a vague gesture with his hand, then simply hurries to get rid of his wet shorts, tossing them on the pile of Sherlock’s clothes in the corner of the small tent. His boxers are still damp up at the waistband where the rain seeped through his shirt during the thunderstorm and again just now, at the beach. They’re cold against his skin, but he doesn’t dare take them off. 

Sherlock shifts to the middle of the makeshift bed, lies down on his side and pulls the sleeping bag up to his shoulders. John looks at him for a moment, then hesitantly lifts the sleeping bag and crawls closer inside. He forces himself to breathe calmly as he lies down on his back beside Sherlock. 

After an awkward moment of staring at the tent’s blue fabric above him, John turns on his side, facing Sherlock. He wants to touch Sherlock, he wants to feel every inch of his body, but he doesn’t know how to start. He has no idea what’s the right thing to do, so he simply looks at Sherlock. He registers all the details of his face that have become so familiar to him — the freckle above his right eyebrow, and his slightly slanted eyes, so often brimming with emotion and wit. The shape of his ears, the slightly ginger shimmer of his stubble. Sherlock’s lips are parted, just a bit, and they are tinged with blue, but John can’t tell if it’s from the cold, or if it’s just because of the faint light of dawn. 

And then there are his eyes, only a few inches away from John’s own, so close to each other they can feel each other’s breath on their skin and that John can feel Sherlock trembling a little in the sleeping bag. It would be so much easier to evade looking Sherlock in the eyes right now. 

Sherlock’s gaze has never been an easy one, he sees more than other people do. He saw John’s fear of the nightly sea and of the things can’t fathom. Sherlock’s insanely quick and creative at coming to the right conclusions. He’s shown John the sea sparkle, thus lightening the darkness of the sea and tearing away his reluctance to face the unknown. Whenever John meets Sherlock gaze he’s aware that he might give things away he’d never tell anyone else. 

It’s no different this time. They lock eyes and John has the impression that Sherlock is looking straight to the bottom of John’s soul — but at the same time, Sherlock is allowing John to see his own soul, too. It’s a connection so intense that John has to blink a few times. Each time he opens his eyes again after that split second of darkness, he’s surprised and foolishly happy with wonder to find Sherlock still here with him, and still so open, still so present. It’s making him so happy he knows he’s going to say something stupid now unless he _does_ something. Anything. 

He lifts a hand and touches Sherlock’s hair, stroking a curl on his forehead. 

The fabric of the sleeping bag rustles as he moves, and yet the gentle morning rain is swallowing all the noises from both the world outside and from inside the tent. With the cloudy sky and the hesitantly rising sun, the light is cool and soft through the blue-yellow fabric, making everything look a little surreal. It’s an atmosphere so achingly intimate and sheltered, John can’t remember ever having felt this before. 

The sleeping bag doesn’t fully cover Sherlock’s shoulders, and with John turning, it has slipped down even farther. John takes in Sherlock’s chest, and although he’s so slender, it’s also a broad plain. He spots more freckles, and a few sparse dark hairs scattered across his smooth skin. Sherlock’s cold legs are touching John’s. They’re warmer, and Sherlock slowly shifts a little closer to him. As Sherlock moves, John’s hand slips from Sherlock’s hair to the back of his head, cupping it without any further thought. Sherlock sighs, and wraps his arms tighter around John, somehow both shy and full of want at the same time. 

For a moment, they hold each other. Sherlock’s body is still cool and damp from the rain. John keeps telling himself that he really has to make sure Sherlock doesn’t catch a fucking cold — that’s why they’re lying here together. And, oh God, it’s so good to have Sherlock in his arms. 

Sherlock pulls back a fraction, and meets John’s eyes again. Looking into Sherlock’s silvery green eyes is like watching a wave while he stands on the wet sand on the shore. It’s like watching the water rise, towering up out at sea and gathering strength. It’s like _knowing_ that it will crash into whitewater and foam in just one moment. Like knowing that it’s strong enough to lift him up off his feet and pull him out to sea and that there will be nothing he can do about it. 

With the same heated anticipation, with that same feeling of knowing, John waits as Sherlock finally leans in and kisses him again. Desire washes over him at the touch of Sherlock’s lips and tongue and he starts to tremble with need. Sherlock kisses him slowly at first, but the the kiss grows faster, Sherlock’s breathing harder and John senses so much emotion and so much need behind it that he momentarily gasps for air. Fucking hell, this feels different from the kisses at the beach. It’s faster, it’s messy and hungry, and leaving John afloat and overwhelmed. But his body isn’t. 

His body searches Sherlock’s, shifting closer and closer until there’s barely any space left between them, and as Sherlock moves closer as well, happiness, excitement and burning arousal pulse through John’s system. His hands start wandering across Sherlock’s shoulder blades. John strokes his back, he feels his muscles, and it’s just now that he understands the sheer size of his back, the broadness of his shoulders — how Sherlock’s tall, male body feels against his own. 

John touches him tentatively at first, he explores him carefully, getting used to this new body under his hands. But Sherlock is already melting into his touch, and this is stealing the breath from John’s lungs. John lets his hands explore the tender skin on Sherlock’s sides. He runs them down from Sherlock’s ribs to the waistband of his boxers, and halfway down, on that sensitive part around the waist, Sherlock breathes a desperate noise into their kiss. 

And suddenly John can’t get enough. The more John touches Sherlock, the hungrier he gets, until he’s starving with the need for more of him. He touches Sherlock’s forearms, threads his hands into his damp curls, gently pulling the strands. He rubs a thumb across Sherlock’s small, hard nipples, eliciting low noises and breathy whimpers. John has never heard him make sounds like these before. 

John lets his hand roam down Sherlock’s spine to the small of his back, making him shiver for a moment. He hesitates, but then he runs his hand lower and touches his buttocks. He can’t resist digging his fingers into the muscle covered by the thin fabric of Sherlock’s boxers. 

Sherlock groans, and John does it again. Sherlock grinds his hips against John’s. 

“Oh fuck,” John pants into Sherlock’s mouth, as he feels Sherlock’s hard cock suddenly press against his hipbone. It’s maddening. He can’t think of anything else but the fact that Sherlock is hard because of him, because of their kisses and touches. Of the fact that Sherlock wants _him._

He squeezes Sherlock’s buttocks again, and Sherlock slides against him once more, stronger now, more desperate, with heavy breaths echoing in the tent. The air between them is heating up, growing damp and warm with exhales and body heat. 

With a shaky breath, John slides his hand between their bodies. He runs his fingers across Sherlock’s bellybutton and the soft skin below. John’s heart is beating like mad when he finally crosses the waistband and the cotton of Sherlock’s boxers. John can feel Sherlock’s cock under the fabric, hot, and hard. It’s big, and somehow it feels foreign and familiar at the same time. The cotton straining over the head is wet, and touching the tell-tale warm, damp patch, John is vividly reminded that his own cock and his own boxers feel the same when he’s hard, when he’s wanking. He thinks he might be about to lose his mind. 

Yet he still slips his fingers into Sherlock’s pants a moment later, finally touching the heated, silky skin of his cock. The way Sherlock groans at his touch makes him bolder and, mustering all his courage, he wraps his hand around the shaft. Sherlock kisses him messily in return. John feels Sherlock’s low moans on his own tongue. Sherlock’s cock is longer than his own, and not quite as thick. He dares running a finger across its head, slick with precome. Their kiss stutters with Sherlock’s panting. 

This is it, John thinks. I’m touching his cock. We’re… we’re having sex. He grins, and kisses him again. Sex with Sherlock. Fucking perfect. 

They’re both out of breath when John pulls back to look at him, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his cheeks are reddened with arousal. John leans in again, kisses his open mouth and licks against Sherlock’s lower lip. He tentatively starts moving his hand on Sherlock’s cock, applying slightly more pressure, stroking his thumb across the slit and the sweet spot below. He moves his hand up and down, working Sherlock slowly and teasingly like he’d do it for himself. 

Sherlock sighs and groans against John’s lips, a deep, throaty noise that goes straight to John’s own cock, hard and leaking in his underwear. Sherlock grazes his fingernails across John’s shoulders, breathing harder, in sync with the motion of John’s hand. He grinds his hips against John and starts to thrust into John’s fist, and now it’s John who moans helplessly with arousal. 

John is intoxicated by how Sherlock feels under his hands. He’s so fucking beautiful, the way he moves, the way he sounds. A lightning bolt of gratitude for being allowed to see Sherlock like this flashes across John’s mind, dazed with arousal and endorphins. He kisses Sherlock harder and even more passionately, he pours everything he feels into his touch. 

Sherlock is squirming and shivering with need. 

John keeps kissing him. A gust of wind hits the tent, and rain splashes against its fabric. He keeps working his cock, and in between, he murmurs, _God, fuck, Sherlock_ into his ear until he feels Sherlock going rigid. He kisses him as Sherlock is reduced to panting into John’s mouth, thrusting harder into his fist. And, with a low cry, Sherlock comes, spilling hot come over John’s fingers. It’s the world’s biggest fucking miracle, the absolutely best thing in the universe. 

John watches Sherlock as he trembles with aftershocks, eyes closed, one elegant hand shoved up into his hair. 

After a few moments, Sherlock opens his eyes. They’re dark, and John knows that no one has ever looked at him this way before. As if he is everything for Sherlock in this moment. Fucking _everything_. 

“You’re smiling,” Sherlock states a little disbelieving when he’s caught his breath, and his voice sounds rough, but happy. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” John replies. He really is smiling; he hadn’t noticed. 

Sherlock lowers his gaze, as if he’d try to hide what this means to him. John briefly wonders if no one has ever called Sherlock beautiful, but after a moment, Sherlock smiles at him and props himself up on one elbow. He leans in and kisses John, his chest still heaving. John lets go of Sherlock’s softening cock and kisses back. He wants him. God, how he wants him. 

He wants to come in Sherlock’s fucking large hands, feel his bare skin all over him, the heaviness of his body and muscles. He wants to feel Sherlock’s breath mingling with his own as he finally comes. 

John is rockhard, he’s close, and he doesn’t need much to take him over the edge. He’s already taking his own cock into his hand, still slick with Sherlock’s come, when Sherlock is leaning up and taking over, gently pushing John down on the towel. Sherlock gets rid of the black pants he’s still wearing, and for a moment, it feels a bit awkward with Sherlock entangling his limbs from his underwear in the small tent. 

When he’s finally naked, he moves on top of John, and starts kissing his neck. He brushes first his lips and then his tongue across his collarbone, and drops a line of hungry kisses down his chest. He licks one nipple, taking his time to taste it, and John groans helplessly, because _fuck,_ he’s sensitive. And feeling Sherlock suck his nipple is breathtaking. He pictures Sherlock’s lips closing around it and groans again, incapable of keeping himself from stroking his cock with his come-slick hand. 

But Sherlock goes deeper, down John’s sternum and across his belly. He licks into his bellybutton and down the line of dark blond hair leading down to John’s boxers. John shivers with anticipation and when Sherlock doesn’t even hesitate before he pulls down John’s pants and takes them off, he’s sure his heart is skipping a beat. 

Sherlock threads his fingers, trembling the slightest bit, into the hand John has curled around his cock and gently takes it away. He looks at John’s hard cock for a long moment. Even though John knows the scrutiny in Sherlock’s gaze by now, he’d never imagined it could make him feel this naked, this exposed. 

Eventually, Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s cock, so gently that John is startled at the touch. Sherlock looks up at John immediately, checking if he’s okay. 

“Just… go on. Go on, Sherlock,” John breathes. He knows he sounds needy, fucking desperate. He really is. 

Sherlock smiles, looking both proud and a bit shy. John is about to say something about how he’s amazing and perfect and wonderful, but then Sherlock starts moving his hand on John’s cock. And all John can do is sink back on the towel and try his best to make sure his groans can’t be heard beyond the tent. 

He feels Sherlock getting down between his spread legs, and a second later, Sherlock suddenly takes him into his mouth. 

“Oh God, _oh God,_ ” John moans hoarsely, clutching a fist into the towel he’s lying on. 

He feels Sherlock lick across the head of his cock. Sherlock’s sucking it, tasting it, he’s fucking _exploring_ it. The wipes of Sherlock’s tongue on his cock leave him breathing through his open mouth, hard, and fast. Sherlock slowly swallows him down, testing how far he can go without gagging. 

John’s so close, this really isn’t going to take very long, and he lifts his head to warn Sherlock, breathing helplessly, “Fuck, I’m — Sherlock, if you go on like this, I’ll _come_ —” 

At that moment, he looks down and sees Sherlock’s face above his groin, sucking him. His lips are stretched around John’s cock and he’s looking at him, his eyes narrowed with desire. 

Oh my fucking God, John thinks. In his wildest dreams he hadn’t pictured a man sucking him could look like _this._

John gasps for air. His climax is rapidly and violently building up inside him, and he fears that he can’t keep it bay, not even for one more second. He’s trying not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, but he can’t tell if he’s succeeding, this feels too good, too intense. And now, now he’s getting desperate with arousal, it’s almost becoming too much. It’s itching under his skin, driving him insane, all of it — Sherlock’s mouth, his lips, his tongue, the knowledge that it’s Sherlock who’s doing this to him. Christ, he fucking needs to come _right fucking now._

And he does come. He reaches the peak of arousal and _floats_ there weightlessly for an incomprehensible moment. And finally, his orgasm unfolds with unknown vehemence and a hot wave of sensation washes through his body. He’s coming hard, probably crying out Sherlock’s name or cursing or both. He doesn’t even care if anyone can hear him. He can feel himself spurting into Sherlock’s mouth, down his throat, and there are no words in any language on earth that could describe the sheer fucking beauty of it. His hands tremble at the intensity of his climax. 

It takes long moments until the rush of his orgasm fades into a state of perfect, blissful daze. Sherlock is stroking his sides, just below his hipbones. He carefully lets go of John’s cock, brushing a kiss on its softening form, and crawls up to John. 

Sherlock shoves his long fingers into John’s short hair and kisses him passionately. His mouth is hot and wet, salty and bitter and slightly acidic. It takes John a heartbeat to realise that it’s his own come he’s tasting in Sherlock’s mouth. He groans, and he could swear he’s almost getting hard again, although it should be physically impossible. 

They kiss for a long time, until their kisses grow lazier, sloppier, sleepier. Sherlock settles himself against John’s side, hooking a leg over him. John half-turns and holds him close. 

“That was fucking amazing, Sherlock. That was the best fucking thing anyone’s ever done to me,” he whispers. 

“I—,” Sherlock starts, in a low voice, but he stops again. He squeezes his eyes shut for a split second. “To me, this means —,” he mumbles, and sighs, swallowing whatever the rest of this sentence might have been. “I wanted you. Like this. I — I wanted to taste you. I’ve thought of doing this for a long time,” Sherlock finally murmurs, pressing a kiss to John’s temple. Something in the tone of Sherlock’s voice makes John wonder. 

“You — you’ve never done this before? Have sex, I mean?” John asks hesitantly. 

“No,” Sherlock admits calmly. “There’s never been anyone.” 

John swallows hard, and brushes a damp, dark curl from Sherlock’s forehead. He bites his lip and then leans in to kiss Sherlock very slowly, thoroughly. 

They lie there together while the sun slowly rises behind the thick clouds, the sleeping bag tousled around them, the now messy towels pressing creases into their skin. 

They don’t sleep. This is far too important, far too precious for sleep. They hold each other and run their fingertips across their skin and hair, across the contours of their faces and the curves of their lips. They’re learning each other’s bodies like blind men learning the texture and the nature of things with the soft pads of their fingers. Like blind men discovering whole worlds written down for them in braille. 

They discover how they are the same — the same flat chests and muscular bellies, the same slim hips and broad shoulders, the same rasp of stubble. They discover how they are different, with dark, curly hair and short blond hair, with hands that exceeds the size of the other’s by a whole phalanx. 

They discover how they are — just them, Sherlock and John. And how that, in the end, is everything that matters. 

And although they’re just touching, just exploring each other, this is no less exciting than having sex with Sherlock. John shivers thinking these words, with both happiness and the feeling of having done something outstanding, something so new and unheard-of, for him. There’s desire in their touches, but more than that it’s adoration, deep affection and curiosity, and a completely different kind of need. It’s John’s need for _Sherlock_ , for him. Just touching someone has never felt this special and this precious for John. 

He watches Sherlock. He’s been a fool to think Sherlock was beautiful when he’s dressed, because the beauty of his naked body is making John choke, wholly incapable of keeping his hands off him. 

And it must be a truly ridiculous twist of fate, but it seems as if Sherlock feels the same way about him. He keeps brushing his thumb across John’s lips, along the soft hollow between his clavicles and over his pulse point. He strokes John’s chest and kisses places whose beauty only he can see, like his nape, like the inner sides of his arms, or the point where his ribcage ends. Sherlock’s a mystery, and not only for devouring John like this. 

They kiss, smiling into each other’s mouths, as if they’re enjoying a secret only they know about. They kiss each other’s noses and earlobes, and the sensitive skin down their throats. 

The light seeping through the fabric of John’s tent gradually gathers strength, and as it does, so do their kisses. John moves and rolls himself on top of Sherlock. They’re both warm now, their skin damp with sweat where they touch. Sherlock’s body smells intoxicating and once again John can’t put into words how much of a fucking beauty Sherlock is, lying there, his dark curls like a halo around his head. 

Images of Sherlock at the campfire flicker across John’s mind — the way he can look sharp and guarded, and bored. As if he wasn’t really a part of anything around here. It’s a stark contrast to how he lets himself be seen by John now, all soft and easy. He’s vulnerable and passionate. So fucking passionate, not holding anything back. 

They’re teasing each other and rekindling their desire with their kisses. Suddenly, John remembers the exact moment they were swimming together, when Sherlock just showed up, out of nowhere. He remembers how Sherlock had spit into the sea, and how he’d wondered what Sherlock’s saliva would taste like on his own tongue. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth, gathering some of his spit, and swallows it down. He understands now why people would want to swallow their partner’s come, and sighs shakily at the thought that Sherlock has just done this. 

They start moving their bodies in a slow rhythm. They’re both hard again, and their erections touch and rub against each other. Christ, John had no idea that sex with a man could work like this, that feeling Sherlock’s cock against his own would make his breath stutter. But still it’s never quite enough, and at some point, when the sweet teasing has long turned into feverish arousal, he takes both their cocks into his hand, trying to give them the tightness and friction they need. 

Sherlock groans a overcome O _h fuck_ into John’s mouth and it’s the sexiest sound John has ever heard. Sherlock wraps his larger hand around John’s, holding them both tight. The way Sherlock moves his hips and pushes his cock against John’s, in and out of their fists, is taking everything else in the world off John’s mind. Their pace isn’t quick, but it’s fucking intense. Each thrust is like a wave rolling in at the beach. It’s the steadiness of their rhythm that makes John’s fingertips tickle with need, that makes him breathe too hard and too much. 

And then, for the second time that morning, John watches Sherlock come undone. He watches Sherlock’s pulse flutter in the artery on his neck. He watches his cheeks blush with heat and lust and his eyes close in a haze when he’s almost there — and fly open again at the moment he comes. 

He takes John right with him over the edge. John thrusts into their hands, wet and slick now, he hasn’t even understood how close he is until he’s being carried away by the long waves of his orgasm, and this time, it takes forever. 

He collapses on Sherlock’s chest, gasping for air like someone who’s just breached the water after a long dive. Sherlock shivers under him, and sighs, and he holds John until they’ve both caught their breath. John feels so proud, so happy. 

It takes John a few moments to understand. But then he knows why he feels so happy, so fucking proud. He took a long overdue look at his own feelings, he faced something he was scared of. He and Sherlock, they finally managed to be open with each other, and it feels better than he ever dared hope. 

He brushes a few kisses against Sherlock’s collarbone. He’s barely able to keep his eyes open anymore when he realises Sherlock is dozing off, too, his nose buried in John’s hair. He lifts his head to look at Sherlock gradually falling asleep. Sherlock’s dark hair is a damp mess and his face is more relaxed than John has ever seen it. John runs his left index finger across Sherlock’s eyebrows. Sherlock’s eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake. But a hint of a smile makes Sherlock’s lips curl up for a split second, and he pulls John closer, until John rests his head and the whole of his tired body against him. 

They don’t hear how the camping site awakes, how people eventually rise from their mats, and peel off their sleeping bags. How they get up, get dressed and start preparing coffee, stifling a yawn. How they talk in sleepy voices, greeting each other and the new, young day that just has broken. 

John and Sherlock sleep through all of this, unaware that anything but them even exists. 

And there is one last thing crossing John’s mind before he drifts off. 

The feeling of these holidays is fucking love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my amazing readers, my real life is being demanding at the moment, and I have to step back from the two weekly posting schedule.
> 
> I can’t promise how much time will pass between posting chapters, I’ll try to limit it to a few weeks and always post as soon as possible. This WIP, however, is _not_ being paused or abandoned! I just need a little more time. And I’m happily working on the later chapters.
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has commented and left kudos. The feedback on this fic is leaving me lost for words and incredibly grateful. I’m tearing up reading your comments on a regular basis. I’m so happy you’re all taking this trip with me.
> 
> Kudos once again to my betas, @ennisnovember, @sincewhendoyoucallme-john and @green-violin-bow. Your support is invaluable and making me a better writer.


	12. Chapter 12

John feels him long before anything else makes its way into his consciousness. There’s an arm draped across his side, holding him, and it’s surprisingly heavy. There are puffs of warm, humid breath against the back of his neck, coming slowly and evenly, telling him that Sherlock is still sleeping. 

John’s warm, sweating, in fact. Sherlock is lying just behind him, on his right side, like John. He’s radiating so much body heat that John pushes the sleeping bag down without opening his eyes. 

He feels a bit cooler now, the tent hasn’t heated up as much as it did the last few mornings. He exhales through his nose, trying to ignore the stale, dry taste in his mouth just for another minute. He doesn’t reach for a bottle of water, he wants to stay exactly like this instead — being held by Sherlock, feeling his naked skin on his own and his hair tickle him lightly where it touches his skin. He wants to capture this moment just like he wants to preserve the way the sun makes the sea glisten at sunset, knowing that there is nothing he can do to keep the earth from spinning away under the last red-orange rays of the sun, that there’s nothing he can do to stop the moment from fading. 

But it doesn’t fade. 

Sherlock’s breathing pattern changes a fraction and he wakes, just enough to press his lips against John’s nape, too soft to even be a kiss. Sherlock’s still holding him, and after a while, happiness slowly starts to bloom in John’s chest as he understands that Sherlock isn’t drawing back, and that this isn’t going to feel awkward. That everything that happened between them since last night still counts. 

Outside John hears people talking in the distance, he hears the low noise of the waves and the wind in the tree tops. The world is drawing in again on the two of them, but they just hold each other, hidden and safe in the shelter of John’s tent. 

John runs his fingers across Sherlock’s large hand, curled against his chest. Eventually, John’s movements slow. He pauses for a heartbeat just to stroke it again, until finally he dozes off once more. 

The next time he wakes, he does open his eyes. He can’t tell how long he’s slept, but the light is brighter, yet soft, as if the sun was still sending its rays through a persistent layer of clouds. The noise from the other people outside the tent is louder now, too, and closer. 

Sherlock is still lying right behind him, but he’s moved his arm. Now he’s lightly running his fingertips down John’s sternum to his bellybutton, and up again. That’s what must have woken him. 

“John?” Sherlock whispers against his nape. 

“Mmmh?” 

“You’re awake,” Sherlock states in another whisper. 

“Mmmh,” John hums. He swallows, and clears his throat to whisper back, “yeah.” He turns, first his head and then the whole top half of his body, to look at Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s the most gorgeous mess. John has never seen his hair this chaotic. It’s wild and dishevelled from getting soaked during the thunderstorm, from drying again without being combed, and from sleep. Sherlock’s eyes are still half-closed, and he’s blinking slowly at John. 

“Hey,” John says, and he’s surprised at the soft, vulnerable tone of his own voice, and at the wave of affection that hits him seeing Sherlock like this. He turns fully towards him, threading his legs between Sherlock’s, and smiles at him. “Hey,” John says again, just as gently. 

Sherlock blinks once more, and brushes a stubborn curl away from his eyes. “Hey,” he replies, still sounding raspy from sleep. And then he blushes, just the slightest bit, but John can still see it. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock adds, in a firmer, but low voice, as if retreating to the consoling security of good manners and formality, and fighting his own shyness and insecurity. 

John smiles and raises a hand, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s sleep-tousled hair. He leans in to press a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s lips and silently marvels at the way they feel under his. Sherlock kisses back just as innocently and when John draws back a fraction, he can see that his blush has grown a little stronger. 

This feels so very much like a first time — waking up with a lover. John is oddly moved by the fact that he’s the first person Sherlock has woken up with. But then, yeah, he _is_ the first person to make love to Sherlock, isn’t he? The thought of it makes John’s stomach do a panicky flip in a mixture of happiness and — responsibility, probably. 

And then John remembers that Sherlock actually is his first lover to wake up with as well. The girlfriends he’s had — three, to be precise — were never allowed to sleep over. So when he’d had sex with them, either he or the girl had to leave again, some time later. Sometimes they had fallen asleep, but never like this. Never without setting an alarm clock to make sure he’d wake up in time to catch the last bus home, or to be gone before her parents returned. 

John leans back in, and kisses Sherlock. He threads his fingers into his curls and shifts closer, pouring kisses down his neck and along his jawline. He kisses the delicate, faintly freckled skin on Sherlock’s shoulder, and then he can’t resist gently biting it. 

He’d kill to wake up like this every morning. 

Sherlock’s breathing hitches a little, and there’s a slightly shaky sigh, and oh God, all of it is going straight to John’s cock. 

“I guess—,” John breathes, looking down at their entangled naked bodies, “I guess we should clean up first. We’re a bit of a sticky mess.” 

They are indeed. There’s dried come on their bellies and cocks, and suddenly John wonders if they should have used condoms. He stops dead. Thinking of the dangers that come with unprotected sex, a hot wave of worry washes over him, tearing him fiercely out of his cosy bubble. Headlines from the tabloids screaming disease and the names of the famous who’d died from AIDS flicker across the back of his mind. Fuck, he even _has_ some condoms, somewhere in his toiletries bag, of course he fucking does! He rakes a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. But — Sherlock hasn’t been with anyone, he tells himself, and he’s used condoms with his girlfriends. He takes another deep breath and tries to calm down a little. 

Sherlock is looking at John, squinting his eyes. “You’re worried. And upset,” he states in a low voice and takes a look at their bellies, at the white splashes of dried fluid, and up at John again. “John, I—,” Sherlock pauses to clear his throat, “I told you. I haven’t had sex with anyone. I might be gay, but I’m clean.” He pauses again. “Not transmitting anything.” 

John swallows, and slowly relaxes. _Not transmitting anything._ Of course Sherlock isn’t. Relief spreads in John’s chest as he exhales. 

Once John is calmer, he realises that hearing Sherlock say that he’s gay is doing something to him. It takes a moment until he can pinpoint it, but then he knows. He’s fucking _proud_ of him. And it feels fucking right, while the fact that it also still feels a little terrifying barely even counts. John has to think of his own coming out and of his talk with Harry, and he isn’t fooled by how easily Sherlock just said that he’s gay. It still takes a bloody lot of courage to voice them like this. 

Now John feels uncomfortable about his initial reaction when he thought about using condoms. Sherlock shouldn’t have had to tell him that he’s clean. 

“I know you haven’t slept with anyone, Sherlock,” John says, and leans down to kiss his temple, and his eyebrow. He’s speaking just loud enough that Sherlock can hear him. He runs his finger across Sherlock’s belly, and across the dried come, tautening his skin. The thin milky crust of ejaculate stands out against the light copper tan of Sherlock’s skin. John reluctantly tears his eyes away from him and adds, “and that’s not it. It’s got nothing to do with you, okay? It’s just all over the media, HIV and safer sex and everything. It — it made me worry for a minute.” 

Sherlock looks at John’s fingers, still caressing his belly. He slowly lifts his own hand and puts it on John’s, ever so lightly, as if not to burden him with anything. 

“Hey,” John murmurs, oddly moved by this gesture. He leans in to kiss Sherlock again, on his lips now. He doesn’t dare open his mouth, he doesn’t like his own stale taste. But nonetheless he kisses Sherlock, with closed lips, and with all the longing and assurance he can put into it. He’s brimming with emotion. “I fucking want this. I want you,” he whispers. 

Sherlock kisses him back, and lets the full weight of his hand rest on John’s. At some point he threads his fingers between John’s and pulls him closer. 

John lets himself be gathered in Sherlock’s arms. He kisses his chin, and then buries his nose in the dishevelled curls, inhaling the scent of his hair. His takes Sherlock’s earlobe between his lips, carefully teasing the soft skin with his teeth. 

There’s a low groan. Sherlock shifts under him, and John feels his hard cock pressing against his. It takes all of John’s self-control not to rub his own cock against him, not to give in to the sweet arousal building up in his groin. He breathes another kiss against the spot under Sherlock’s ear and slowly draws back to look at him. 

“So, concerning the shower — I agree, but I don’t approve,” Sherlock says, slightly out of breath, and with a crooked smile. The tension between them is gone. They’re good, John realises with relief. 

John props himself up on one elbow, smiling back at him. Sherlock hesitantly stretches out a hand, touches John’s shoulder and runs his fingers further, until he reaches his nape. He lightly grazes the back of his neck, and the soft, short hair there. 

For a moment, John spots wonder, joy and pure curiosity in Sherlock’s eyes. It feels like a promise to John, a first taste of what might be to come between Sherlock and him. He feels Sherlock’s gaze wander across his body. They’re both naked, and they’re both hard — but they really ought to have a shower first. And now that John thinks of it, he needs a piss as well, and definitely a coffee and some breakfast. 

“I’m starving, Sherlock. And I’m fairly sure I stink, too. Let’s get up.” 

Sherlock groans, but smiles all the same. 

John forces himself to turn away from Sherlock and to try and find their clothes. He sits up and reaches for the pile of clothes they took off this morning, but they’re still wet. 

“I’ll need some of yours,” Sherlock says. “Until I get to my tent and get my own stuff, that is,” he adds. 

“Yeah, you can take mine. Of course you can,” John says quickly, trying to ignore how the idea of Sherlock wearing his clothes has lit a small bonfire inside his stomach. 

He finds two fresh t-shirts and two pairs of boxers. There’s only one pair of shorts left, he hands them to Sherlock and slips into his swimming trunks instead, not bothering with the boxers. 

A bottle of water lies discarded in one corner of the tent, and John unscrews it and hands it to Sherlock. When Sherlock has finished getting dressed (John’s t-shirt is an inch or two too short, and not nearly as tight as John has hoped it would be), he drinks. John watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

So fucking beautiful, John thinks. 

He drinks as well, letting the water wash away the dry feeling and the sour taste in his mouth. Once he’s finished and just about to put the lid back on, Sherlock leans towards him, and kisses him, suddenly hungry, with tongue and everything. 

John groans and goes down on the towels under Sherlock, balancing the open bottle with one hand, and slipping his other hand under Sherlock’s t-shirt. He takes Sherlock’s lower lip between his, sucking it, and only lets go of it when Sherlock pants, _God, please,_ against his mouth, not even saying what he’s begging for. 

Finally the bottle slips through John’s fingers, water splashes on both their t-shirts, and one of the towels under them gets wet. Sherlock draws back and rests his head on John’s shoulder, breathing hard. He’s kneeling above his hips, straddling him. John craves to feel his naked skin under his hands. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and back here again,” Sherlock whispers against John’s shoulder, making John shiver at the stroke of breath across his skin. 

“Let’s get me fed as well, please. And we could clean you up a bit, too, while we’re at it,” John smiles, shuddering once more as he feels Sherlock’s warm breath at the crook of his neck. Life’s so fucking amazing this morning he could laugh out loud. 

“Mmmh, okay.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble in his chest, almost a purr. John has a feeling that it will drive him mad with want at some point. 

“I’m not sure we can have a shower together, though. I won’t be fucking able to keep my hands off you,” John whispers, turning his head towards Sherlock’s ear. 

“That’s actually what I was hoping for, John,” Sherlock breathes in reply. 

“Madman,” John says tenderly, and kisses him again. 

A few minutes later, John unzips the entry of his tent and crawls out. As he’s guessed, it’s cloudy, and the sand in front of the tent is damp with last night’s rain. The air is cool, and he reaches back into his tent for his hoody, still clammy, but better than nothing. 

Harry is sitting on an upside-down plastic box, right in the space between their tents, making coffee. 

“Hey, John,” she says, and smiles at him for a moment before she goes back to pouring ground coffee into the espresso maker. 

“Hey,” John says and pauses, suddenly unsure what to do. He stretches. He doesn’t quite know what to say, either. It’s all rather obvious, isn’t it? 

There’s a rustle in John’s tent. A moment later, Sherlock, too, crawls out, the odd, gangly grace of a new-born puppy with too-long limbs. He looks sleepy and soft again in the cool light of day, and bloody gorgeous. Seeing Sherlock wear his t-shirt and shorts makes John stand a little straighter and grin like an idiot. It makes him want to point at him and shout _mine_ , tell fucking everyone and their dog that he and Sherlock, they’re — _this_. 

Harry has the wit not to freeze in the middle of what she’s doing, but there’s the tiniest pause, a tremor in time, when she spots Sherlock. 

“Loo,” Sherlock says instead of a greeting, voice rough. He nods in the direction of the shower houses, and walks away in quick, long strides, hunching his shoulders against the cool air, still not warmed by the sun even though it must be noon by now. 

Harry turns her head to look up at John. 

And smiles. 

John smiles back and when Harry’s smile turns into a big grin, proud and way too inappropriate for John’s liking, he nudges her in the side, blushing hard. 

Harry laughs. “You’re good?” 

“I guess, er — fuck, _yes_ ,” he admits, laughing as well now. He’s got a feeling that his blush isn’t going to subside any time soon. 

“And Sherlock?” 

“I think so.” He bites his lips and smiles anyway, scratching his head. “He did sound rather… happy.” 

John feels a bit self-conscious saying this, but pure joy is bubbling up inside him, and he has to evade Harry’s gaze for a moment. He takes a long, thorough look at his naked feet in the cool, wet sand instead, and out at the grey ocean. It has calmed down a bit, but it’s still rough, still slightly troubled from last night’s storm. It will be a cloudy, windy day, much cooler than the last few. What a relief after all that brooding heat, he thinks. 

He looks back at Harry eventually. Beaming with pride and glee, she jumps to her feet, toppling over the espresso maker, and hugs him, hard, even pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“God, Johnny, I’m so fucking happy for you!” she laughs. 

He hugs her back, hesitantly at first and then he holds her tight, suddenly feeling more fucking grateful than he could ever put into words. They stay like that for a long moment, swaying a little while they hug, until she pulls away and says cheerily, “Gah, and you smell disgusting, little brother. Go find your man and have a shower with him.” 

John grins back at her, and turns, feeling the blush reaching his ears. He can’t stop smiling as he crawls back into his tent to grab his bag of toiletries and two small towels. 

He’s still smiling as he walks over to the shower houses. He can’t help but beam at the people passing him, hoping that no one will stop to ask what’s making him so happy. 

He meets Sherlock halfway up to the shower house. 

“I was just—” John starts, and stops, because — because his heart is about to fucking explode when he sees Sherlock. “Shower, you know?” John says after a moment, trying to fit the words together so that they form a coherent sentence. “Care to join me? I mean — yeah, you know. Just a — a shower.” 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, smirking. “Of course.” 

As they shower, John faces the wall and the taps in an attempt to hide that he is, in fact, half hard most of the time, just because Sherlock is naked and standing right next to him. He can see him from the corner of his eye, washing his hair and face, spreading shower gel across his wet skin with those large, elegant hands. He watches Sherlock wash his armpits, his belly. When his hands trail down towards his dark pubic hair and his cock, John has to turn his head and focus on a broken white tile half a foot to his right. 

John tries to ignore all thoughts about everything they did this morning, about the sounds Sherlock made, the way he felt under John’s hands. About where they touched each other, and how much John wants to do it again. He squeezes his eyes shut — as if that might help — and sighs into the spray of warm water, tasting shampoo on his lips. He takes a deep breath, turns the tap to cold and hurries up. 

His hands are icy and his skin is covered in goosebumps by the time he’s finished rinsing his hair. He rubs himself dry with a towel and quickly slips back into his clothes, looking at his bag of toiletries. Time to brush his teeth. 

He squeezes toothpaste on his toothbrush in the adjacent room, standing in front of a row of sinks lined up against the wall, painted in white, aging paint. He starts to clean his teeth. The air smells faintly of the chlorine in the water, of lemon cleaner and the special odour clinging to rooms that stay wet for most of every day. It’s only overlaid by the scents of shower gel and deodorant, still lingering in the humid air after the men who’d used them have long left the shower house. 

They’re alone in here. Nobody else is taking a shower at noon. On the campsite, people mostly shower either in the morning after getting up, or in the late afternoon, once they’re back from the beach. And with the cool, cloudy weather outside, the majority of the campers seem to have stayed in their tents and caravans anyway. 

John walks back to the showers with the toothbrush in his mouth, and looks at Sherlock again. He’s already rinsed the soap and the shampoo off, now he’s just standing in the hot spray of the water. John’s steps sound loud in the shower room. 

Sherlock must be enjoying it, relaxing like this. He’s closed his eyes and tilted his head back. The water is running over his face and down his neck. He looks as if he’s letting it all sink in, John thinks, not knowing where the idea has come from. He’s barely able to grasp everything that’s happened — that is _happening_ — himself. He smiles. For all the doubts he’d had, he can’t believe his luck now, that this man was kissing him not even fifteen minutes ago. 

John leans back against the tiles, watching Sherlock, his toothbrush in his mouth. When he smiles, toothpaste runs down his chin. There’s still no one around. 

He walks back to the sink where his toiletries bag sits on the battered white porcelain, spits out the foamy toothpaste and wills water round his mouth. He takes a look back over his shoulder on his way to the showers. Everything is silent save for the soft thudding of his feet on the floor and the sound of the water of Sherlock’s shower. 

He finds Sherlock the way he’d left him, standing in the spray, eyes closed. He takes him in as he comes closer, feeling himself getting hard in his swimming trunks. Sherlock’s so fucking beautiful. 

He stops a foot in front of him, trying not to get his clothes wet, and reaches out his hands, running them across Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and meets John’s gaze. Within a split second he understands what John is up to, because a hint of a smile flickers across his face just before John pulls him closer and kisses him. 

John isn’t quite sure how far he wants to take this, here. He feels like pushing Sherlock against the wall, touching him until they’re both gasping for air. But he’s not keen on getting a lecture on indecency in fucking French, or being thrown out of the camp-site. God knows how people here would react to two men snogging in a public shower. God knows what the fucking law says about that, in France. A small part of him doesn’t care at all. 

Sherlock kisses back and opens his mouth, he still tastes a bit like sleep and coziness, but it’s not unpleasant, just different from the minty taste of toothpaste in John’s mouth. The intimacy of it makes John’s heart beat quicker. 

John isn’t prepared for the wave of desire that floods his body when he brushes his tongue against Sherlock’s. He wants Sherlock, and the fact that Sherlock’s naked, here, with him, makes it hard for him to even breathe normally. 

Sherlock stumbles a step backwards, reaching behind him to turn off the water. When there’s only a slow trickle of water running down the shower head, he lets John push him against the wall. He leans his head against the tiles and breathes out, long and slow. He closes his eyes as John runs his hands across Sherlock’s chest and sides, across his wet, glistening skin. Water runs down between John’s fingers, water that has been clinging to Sherlock’s skin, to the fine hair on his body. John presses his hard cock against Sherlock’s thigh. He doesn’t give a fuck any more that his clothes are getting wet. He goes up on tiptoe and kisses Sherlock fiercely. 

When he slowly trails his fingers down Sherlock’s belly to his pubic hair, following a rivulet of water down from his belly button, Sherlock pants, “Tent. Now.” 

John draws back and smiles, chest heaving. 

Sherlock dresses almost as quickly as he did that night at the beach, when they’d swum naked in the sea. His skin must be at least as wet under his t-shirt, boxers and shorts as he had been then. 

John collects his bag, the towels and his hoody, and hurries to follow Sherlock, who’s halfway out of the shower house already. They walk quickly towards the tent, easily falling into step with one other. 

John casts a sideways glance at Sherlock, finding him grinning in the same half-concealed way that John had earlier, with Harry. 

“Not able to keep your hands off me indeed,” Sherlock says in a low voice, looking firmly at the path in front of them. “Knew you were into a bit of danger.” 

John wants to push him against the nearest tree and snog him senseless. 

They make it to the tent and luckily, neither Harry nor Gemma are to be seen. They climb in, and John throws his stuff into one corner and zips the tent closed. Sherlock sits down right where they’d slept, the sleeping bag tousled behind him. His eyes are full of intense desire, of deep longing for John. 

John hesitates for just a moment, devouring the realisation of how much they are drawn to each other, and the excited anticipation of finally, _finally_ putting his hands on Sherlock’s naked skin again. 

_Naked._ This is the cue. John can’t bear not touching him for another second, he’s on him immediately. They’re kissing hungrily, wrangling each other out of their clothes at the same time. The t-shirts are gone first, and there are messy kisses on nipples, strokes of tongue against necks and shivers and sighs. 

John reaches a hand down between Sherlock’s legs and feels him, hard and hot under the fabric of his shorts. Sherlock gasps, pressing his cock against John’s palm. He lifts his pelvis and lets John pull the shorts and boxers down in one go. Once Sherlock is naked, John ends up kneeling between his spread legs. Sherlock’s cock is flushed, hard against his belly. 

Both John and Sherlock are panting. 

John swallows and inhales slowly. Then he licks his lips and looks at Sherlock, at how he’s waiting for him, obviously wanting him, and allowing John to have him. John wants Sherlock so fucking much, and now that he dares to look at it, he’s fucking curious about the things they could do — the things he wants to do. And he’s also nervous. He takes another deep breath, sits up, lifts his own pelvis and shoves down the swimming trunks he’s wearing. 

So, both naked, he thinks, having re-established a kind of equilibrium that feels oddly important right now. He looks at Sherlock and sees the same nervousness and the same desire in his eyes. They’re both new to this, they’re only just learning this. Suddenly he needs to hold Sherlock in his arms, to be close to him. To fucking feel him, the warmth of his body, the rhythm of his breath and the beating of his perfect heart. 

They kiss, and Sherlock pulls him closer, right into his arms. He’s holding John, but his hands start to wander across John’s shoulders and back almost instantly, as if he can’t get enough of him, either. After a moment, he wraps his legs around John’s hips. John gasps in surprise, it feels delicious. Their cocks touch, and John feels the dampness of precome between his legs, unable to tell if it’s his or Sherlock’s. 

They roll their hips, providing each other with waves of friction, getting slightly quicker as they move. John likes the way Sherlock moves, not just now, but always. He is mesmerized by the rhythm of his body and the pattern of his movements. He loves watching all his small gestures: the way he holds his head, his gait, how he swims. It’s a marvel to see him just _be_. And he is intoxicated by the way Sherlock is moving with him now, how he takes up the motion John starts, grinding his hips against John’s just a split second after John has moved his. This tiny delay makes them not collide, but interact. It’s like fucking dancing, how they’re moving together. It’s the hottest damn thing he’s ever experienced, feeling Sherlock like this. 

And then there’s Sherlock’s cock, pressing against John’s, and John is overly aware of it, drawn to it magnetically. He takes it into his hand, strokes it and rubs his thumb across the slick head, making Sherlock groan. John feels like he’s going mad. 

“You like this?” John asks. This mixture of arousal and nervousness is winding him up. He can’t stay silent, even if it means talking complete nonsense or making a fool of himself. He needs to hear Sherlock’s voice, he needs it to ground him. 

“God, yes,” Sherlock sighs, his arousal a tremor in his voice. “Fuck, John, I do.” 

“You feel so amazing. You feel so fucking good,” John says with a raspy voice, and he knows he’s rambling, but he enjoys it, telling Sherlock this. “I really can’t keep my hands off you,” he whispers against his lips in between their kisses. 

He strokes Sherlock’s cock, large and hot in his hand, and he loves the feel of the soft, delicate skin over the hard tissue beneath. His fingers are slick with Sherlock’s precome, and he wonders what it tastes like. The thought of it makes him even harder. 

“I—” he tries, but his heart is beating so fiercely now he’s not getting any word out. 

“Do it,” Sherlock breathes, saving him, “do it, John.” He sighs vocally, a beautiful, desperate sound. “Suck my cock.” 

John exhales shakily and dimly registers that Sherlock could make him come simply by talking to him, if he really set his mind to it. 

He feels like he’s melting with desire when he sits back on his heels, and when he lies down on his stomach between Sherlock’s splayed legs. He wraps his hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, and runs his thumb across the underside. And then he takes him into his mouth. 

Oh my fucking God, John thinks, and can’t help but grind his hips against the towel underneath him. It feels fucking amazing having Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. It’s a bit uncomfortable, and he has to open his mouth wider than he’d had to in his fantasies. And, fuck, he has fantasized about this, he fucking has — repeatedly, every time he’d been too drunk to push the thoughts away. He’s wanted this for ages, to suck a cock, to feel a man’s hard cock push against his palate. To feel him move faster, to hear him moan, to make him come in his mouth. 

It doesn’t even take a heartbeat to know that he loves it. 

John tastes Sherlock’s precome on his tongue, it’s salty. It tastes like the sea. 

The swipe of his tongue against the sensitive head elicits a low moan from Sherlock. John sucks it, lightly and experimentally, and Sherlock inhales sharply, lifting his hips to push hesitantly into John’s mouth, as if he doesn’t quite dare to, but can’t fight it either. John does it again, together with a firm stroke of his hand along the shaft, and Sherlock moves once more in that intoxicating manner, bolder now, showing John how he needs it. John is learning, quickly and eagerly, how Sherlock likes it, what it is that makes him gasp and curse and stop talking altogether. 

John finds a rhythm of sucking and stroking, grinding his hips against the towel. He ignores the cramp building up in his jaw, because Sherlock is panting harder now and starting to thrust into his mouth. 

Giving head is so much more than John’s ever imagined. It’s not just Sherlock’s cock in his mouth; it’s also Sherlock’s restless, desperate hands, threaded into John’s hair. It’s his whole body shivering at the strokes of John’s tongue against the slit and across the frenulum. It’s the low, breathless whimpers escaping Sherlock’s mouth as John tries to take him deeper, finding out how that feels in his mouth, in his fucking throat. And it’s his own arousal, his own hard cock he can’t even touch right now, because he’s got his left hand on Sherlock’s cock and he’s holding himself up with his right. 

Sherlock’s gasps turn into words again, and John hears him say his name. He goes faster, trying to make it better for Sherlock. He wants to feel him come. 

Sherlock’s panting takes on a helpless, pleading edge. He thrusts faster and John feels his large hand threading harder into his hair until he’s almost pulling it. 

And then Sherlock slightly loses his rhythm, he’s arching his back and groaning John’s name once more. John feels his cock pulsing, and hot fluid fills John’s mouth, salty and, as he swallows it a moment later, bitter. 

He carefully lets go of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock looks so fucking blissful, smiling with his mouth half-open and his eyes closed. 

John gets up on his knees. He runs his fingers across Sherlock’s whole body as he crawls up to him. The air between them vibrates with the floating energy and the aftershocks of Sherlock’s orgasm and John’s tickling arousal, his growing need to come. 

Sherlock shivers under John’s touch, skin covered in goosebumps wherever his hand has brushed. Sherlock sighs and touches John’s wet lips with his fingers, he draws him closer to kiss him. John licks into his mouth, burning up with arousal, much more than he ever has. 

Kissing Sherlock now is like drinking water after he’s been swimming, after the salty seawater has gushed into his mouth and left him thirsty. Sherlock tastes sweet, perfect, like the only thing that can sate John’s desire. Like the only thing that will ever sate it. 

Sherlock’s kisses lack John’s desperate urgency and the and the tightly-wound need of arousal, but they taste like bliss and uninhibited desire, like the sweet peak of joy. John is getting even more hungry, he needs this, and he needs this from Sherlock. 

Sherlock understands and pulls John closer still, until John’s straddling his hips. He takes John’s cock into his large hand. John breaks their kiss to stare unabashedly at how Sherlock is touching him, at those beautiful fingers wrapped around his cock, caressing it. He groans at the sight of Sherlock’s hand moving firmly up and down. 

John tries to be silent, but fuck, it’s hard. It’s so hard that he goes back to kissing him, but he can’t help but groan into Sherlock’s mouth, feeling his own voice stifled by their kisses, though they still make his lips vibrate with need. 

He’s fucking bursting. He thrusts into Sherlock’s hand, faster, and faster. He feels Sherlock’s teeth under his tongue and the bones of his jaw. He feels Sherlock’s strong hand on his cock and his own thighs pressing against Sherlock’s hips. There’s Sherlock’s skin and his hair under John’s fingers. John grabs him, holds him, trying to be gentle and failing. He hears Sherlock moaning in a low voice, encouraging him, taking this voyage with him and he feels closer to Sherlock than he’s ever felt to anyone before. Sherlock. He’s fucking everything. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock pants against his lips, teasing and pleading at the same time. That’s what does it for John, the sound of Sherlock’s deep voice, the way John can feel the words with his body rather than hear them. It’s the knowledge that Sherlock wants him like this, he wants him to come undone. 

He thrusts into Sherlock’s hand once more and then he’s coming. He’s spurting all over Sherlock’s belly and he doesn’t know when they stopped kissing and instead started watching him come. 

John is still moving, still rolling his hips towards Sherlock’s hand, until it’s all over and he can barely hold himself up anymore. With a heavy, defeated sigh, he sinks down onto Sherlock’s chest, burying his head in the crook of his neck and breathing hard. 

“Oh God,” John groans. “Oh my fucking God.” 

Sherlock turns his head and kisses his hair while he runs his fingers across John’s nape. He’s holding him. 

“Oh God, Sherlock, that was — fucking intense,” John says, still panting. 

Now John turns his head and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s cheek, raspy with stubble. It feels good. John kisses him again. Feels fucking _perfect_. 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but John feels his mouth twist into a smile and hears how his breathing changes with a low, rumbling chuckle, and a deep, happy inhale. 

They lie like this for a long time, until John’s stomach starts to growl. 

“You’re hungry,” Sherlock states in a whisper. “I think you demanded being fed earlier. Breakfast.” 

“Yeah,” John says, his voice soft with the sheer fucking comfort of lying in his lover’s arms. “Not sure if we can still call it breakfast. Must be afternoon by now.” 

“Who cares,” Sherlock huffs, and kisses John. 

The feeling of these holidays is fucking perfection. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was intended to nicely and neatly span the whole 'first' day of Sherlock and John together. They ended up having post-shower sex instead. So, one more chapter. ;)
> 
> And, as a general note: They're seventeen years old. They have the libido and the stamina, and they've got little more than a week together. There'll be a lot of sex.
> 
> ___
> 
> Please note that at the time being I have to step back from my two-weekly posting schedule. I'll post as quickly as I can, but real life is a thing these days.


	13. Chapter 13

Reluctantly, they emerge from John’s tent. They’re still kissing, murmuring _We really should get going at some point_ and _Oh my God, just don’t stop._ John crawls out backwards, getting his feet tangled up in the entrance. Sherlock cups John’s face and kisses him once more, slowly running his tongue along his lips. John groans helplessly, considering whether to abandon his plan to eat something, whether to head back into the tent instead and get Sherlock out of his clothes as quickly as possible. But then his stomach growls loudly, and he feels slightly nauseous with hunger. He absolutely has to eat something. 

Harry and Gemma still aren’t around, but when John checks the box where they keep their food, he finds that they’ve left them one and a half baguettes. _That’s a start,_ he thinks and takes them out of the box, together with the jar of raspberry jam, the only spread they’re having here, without a fridge. He sits down on the plastic box Harry has turned upside down earlier, and starts to make coffee and spread jam on the baguettes. 

“I’ll just go and get a few things,” Sherlock says once he’s climbed out of the tent. Although it must be afternoon already, Sherlock still looks as if he’d just got up — which, in a way, he has, John thinks, and blushes a little, remembering how they’ve spent the past hour. 

He wonders when seeing Sherlock won’t make him grin like an idiot, because just now, he can’t help it. He looks at Sherlock and sees nothing but beauty, nothing but marvel, and his heart is flowing over with the need to touch him, or, even better, to kiss him, hold him and fucking never let him go. He watches Sherlock walking down the path into the sparse forest, not quite able to believe that he is fetching some of his belongings to bring back to John’s tent. To stay with him. 

He takes a bite of the baguette, and almost moans with delight, because it’s life-saving at this point. It’s the best bloody thing he’s eaten in ages, and he doesn’t remember when he was this hungry. 

Sherlock stops between his tent and Eddie’s and James’s. James is sitting in a folding chair in front of his tent, reading a book. He looks up at Sherlock, starting to smile with one corner of his mouth. James asks him something, but John is too far away to hear what they’re saying. For a split second, a smile flickers across Sherlock’s face, but then he evades James’s gaze and looks at a point among the trees behind the tent, muttering something under his breath. John has the distinct feeling that Sherlock isn’t very comfortable with the conversation. 

John wonders what they’re talking about and how much of last night Sherlock actually remembers. He tries to put himself in Sherlock’s place and picture what it must be like to meet James this morning. What would he, John, do? 

He’d thank James, of course he would. And he’d be bloody uncomfortable, too. 

For a few moments, John watches Sherlock’s unease, the slight tension in his body and the hints of his discomfort. Sherlock is talking to James, and it looks like he’s wrangling with the words. John squints his eyes, and realises that Sherlock might not be used to thanking people — or to accepting their help in the first place. Maybe even the idea of having people, _friends,_ who do help him, is foreign to him. 

James smiles at Sherlock. It’s a open and genuine smile, and there isn’t any pity in it, nothing that gives John the impression that James is looking down on Sherlock. James says something, and if John would have to guess, he’d say it’s something along the lines of _Shit happens, Sherlock, and we’ve all been there, at some point_. 

Whatever it is, it makes Sherlock look at James for a moment. Then he furrows his brow, looks out at the sea, and back at James again. Finally, he smiles, too, and nods at James before he bends down to crawl into his tent. When Sherlock walks back along the path to John a couple of minutes later, he looks a bit more relaxed. 

You’re not alone, Sherlock. You just don’t quite know yet, John thinks, suddenly grateful that James and Eddie will be there when Sherlock will back at boarding school and John isn’t around. 

Sherlock brings an armful of things back to John’s tent and the closer he comes, the more his mouth turns up into a crooked smile. He’s brought a few clothes, his sleeping bag, his sleeping mat, and some clutter, clutched in his hands, that will make John’s tent feel so weirdly, wonderfully like Sherlock: his cigarettes and lighter, his bag of toiletries, his Discman and a few CDs. There’s also the book he’s been reading at the beach, and now John can even read the title, _Oceanography and Marine Biology_. 

Sherlock looks at John as if he was moving in with him. And as if he was pleased with the idea. 

The espresso maker wheezes as it boils, pressing steam through the thick layer of ground coffee. John switches off the stove and pours coffee into two plastic mugs. It smells wonderful. He’d bought sugar the other day, and found an empty jar with a lid to put it in, screwed tightly shut to keep the ants off. He adds two tea spoons of sugar to one cup, and a big splash of milk to the other one. Sherlock vanishes into John’s tent, probably to drop his things. 

“Hey. Sit on the bench?” John asks when Sherlock comes out again. 

Sherlock takes the mug with the black coffee from John’s hand, sips it, and nods. 

They take the baguettes to the bench. Sherlock sits down next to John, and he’s sitting closer than usual. Or maybe it just feels different to John. He tries to explain it away with the fact that it’s still cool, and then he shakes his head at himself. Sherlock is sitting close to him for the exact right reasons — because he wants to be close to John — and John loves it. 

Sherlock is wearing a navy blue jumper, made out of some ridiculously soft wool, and it must be far too expensive for camping holidays. Sherlock looks so fucking public school with his disheveled dark curls and his delicate tan, with his casually worn-out cropped jeans and his naked feet in the wet sand. He looks as if he’d jumped right out of those adverts John’s seen in magazines, for clothes he can’t afford, for men’s fucking fashion. John exhales and pushes this thought away. He licks his lips, blushing at the awareness that now he knows exactly what Sherlock looks like underneath his carelessly beautiful clothes. John pulls the zip of his hoody down a few inches, it’s suddenly much warmer in spite of the breeze from the ocean. 

John lets his eyes wander to the horizon, a lighter grey against the sea’s darker shade, when Sherlock sneaks the half-eaten baguette from John’s hands. John turns towards him, just when Sherlock is biting off a piece. He doesn’t say a word, because at that moment, Sherlock starts to lick jam from his fingers, humming with delight as he devours the sweetness. John smiles, shaking his head, and lets Sherlock finish his bread. He takes the other one instead and eats it while he lets his gaze follow the waves on their way to the shore, while he feels the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh touching his. 

“You’re quite besotted with the sea, John,” Sherlock states, once he’s finished chewing. 

John looks at him. Sherlock’s eyes are grey-green like the Atlantic today, although they’re brighter, and there’s a hint of blue, adding up to a near inexplicable colour. They’re as fascinating as the sea beneath them, and John has the feeling he will never tire of exploring them. They’re also glittering with a hint of a challenge, directed at John. 

“Yeah, I am. Problem?” John replies, cocking an eyebrow, fully aware that he’s taking the bait. 

“Not intimidated anymore?” Sherlock asks, and apart from the light banter, John can also hear happiness in his voice. 

“Not at all,” John says, and all the teasing is gone, because he understands that he truly isn’t intimated. They actually should go swimming again like they did that night, and the idea of being naked with Sherlock in the sea makes his head spin. 

Sherlock goes back to observing the sea with the same scrutiny and the same fascination John pictures him putting into conducting an experiment; it’s the same way Sherlock looked at the sea sparkle. Out of the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock smile. 

The clouds aren’t as heavy as last night, but it’s still windy, and the ocean still hasn’t calmed into the smooth mirror it used to be during the last days. It’s a myriad of ever-changing valleys and ridges, of endless waves, some of them crowned with crests of white foam. It looks wild and proud, as if pointing out to these small, vulnerable, arrogant humans that it is the fucking _Atlantic Ocean._ And while it can be calm, warm and welcoming, it remains unpredictable, a constant challenge. Fucking perfect, John thinks, silently admiring its untamed beauty. 

Eventually, they’re both finished eating. The coffee has cooled a little, it’s warm, but not enough to burn the tongue. Sherlock takes a sip, licking his lips after he drinks. 

John would love to touch him, to draw him into an embrace and kiss him. He doesn’t quite dare. He isn’t sure if Sherlock would like it, and he’s got no idea of how demonstrative he might be in public. But then — Sherlock is close to him, constantly, having seemingly abandoned the concept of personal space. They’re sitting just a bit closer; their legs touch, their feet, their shoulders. John presses his arm against Sherlock’s for a moment, and feels Sherlock’s answering press an instant later. 

Sherlock takes another sip of his coffee and places the mug on the bench afterwards. He shifts the slightest bit closer to John, his body touching John’s from knee to shoulder. Then he leans back against the bench, crossing his legs at the ankles. 

“How are you, Sherlock?” John asks, because it feels like the right thing to ask, now. He can’t help but think about last night, about the drugs Sherlock has taken and his own despair. Has it really been just a few hours since he sat in James’s tent, not knowing how the night would end? 

It feels far away in the light of day, and John’s tempted to just sit here with Sherlock, to enjoy the feeling of being so close to him, while his skin is still tingling with Sherlock’s kisses and touches, still carrying the scent of Sherlock’s skin. John knows talking about it will make Sherlock uncomfortable, but he knows that he can’t let last night slip away unmentioned. 

Sherlock tenses the slightest bit and presses his lips together before he replies. 

“I’m okay. I’m… much better, in fact,” Sherlock says in a low voice. 

“About yesterday…” John starts, not knowing what he actually wants to say. 

“I’m sorry I made you worry. That wasn’t my intention,” Sherlock interjects. Now he looks as uncomfortable as he did talking to James. Avoiding John’s gaze, he looks at his hands instead, and at the sea. 

John swallows, remembering that he’s probably the reason Sherlock resorted to drugs. They have to sort out this mess together. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been so — that it’s taken me so long. To understand. I didn’t mean to hurt you, either,” John says eventually, internally battling the words and hoping Sherlock will know what he means. John has the vague feeling that there’s more to say, that he should go deeper, get to the core of the things that have happened, but — he can’t. He doesn’t know how to fucking do that, without accidentally hurting Sherlock, without damaging what they’ve got now. 

“Are you — are you okay with it now?” Sherlock asks. He picks up the empty coffee mug again, fidgeting with it. “With being with me?” His voice gets lower with every word. 

“God, fuck, I am. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier, Sherlock,” John says, and his heart clenches a little at Sherlock’s question and his doubts. He exhales, something between an helpless, incredulous laugh and a sigh. He’d love to kiss Sherlock now, the kind of kiss that would wipe all doubts away, that would leave no question about John’s feelings. He still doesn’t dare, so he just takes Sherlock’s hand and holds it. It feels like a huge thing, doing this here, where anybody could see. 

Sherlock lets John hold his hand. It’s warm now and not as cold as it was when he first took it early this morning at the dark beach, it’s smooth and strong. It’s so beautiful John wants to run his fingers across the surface of Sherlock’s fingernails, across the callused skin where his fingertips have pressed down the strings of the violin, and across the veins, shimmering blue on the back of his hands. 

Sherlock looks at their intertwined hands. He smiles and exhales. John watches him, watches his nervousness lessen. Some remains though, settling in his shoulders and in the furrow between his brows. John decides to kiss it away as soon as they’re on their own. 

They lean back against the bench, both of them relaxing. For a few breaths, they stay like this, not moving, just... feeling. Getting used to this, maybe, letting it all sink in. It’s still shockingly new and really, shockingly good. John has never felt this way, this intensely at the beginning of a new relationship. A few raindrops fall, soft and soundless, not even cold. Neither John nor Sherlock move. 

This is the daylight mirror of two nights ago, John thinks. He exhales, more and more aware of the tension of the last few days fading from his body, gradually releasing its steely grip on his heart. The nagging uncertainty is slowly replaced by the feeling of things finally being very, very right. He has understood something about himself that was there, ignored, for a very long time; something that had started to _hurt._ This day, he thinks, this day is like arriving in a new reality — a new reality where he’s bi, and where he’s with Sherlock. He exhales slowly and smiles. 

“Let’s go swimming,” Sherlock says. He sounds more like his usual self now, and John is relieved about that. He’s bloody surprised, too, although he ought to be getting used to Sherlock’s spontaneity by now. 

“Now? It’s just starting to rain.” 

“Well, we’ll get wet anyway, won’t we?” Sherlock gets up, not letting go of John’s hand. He pulls him along. A surge of joy sweeps through John’s body. He looks up at the grey sky above them as he rises from the bench, laughing as more raindrops hit his face. 

They change into their swimming trunks in John’s tent, stealing glances at one another as they undress. They both notice, quickly looking the other way. They grab their towels and take the steep path to the beach. The rain is getting a bit heavier, turning into a mild summer shower. 

The beach is empty, no one’s swimming today. It’s too cool for most people, and too rainy. They drop their towels in the sand, somewhere between the spot where the driftwood sticks of their makeshift sunshade are still plunged into the ground and where they’d put their clothes as they’d swum amid the sea sparkle. 

The water feels the same as it did that night, and John is surprised that it isn’t as cold as he’d expected. They swim out towards the sandbank, until the beach is nothing more but a narrow stripe of broken white under the camp-site’s hill next to the dune. 

The sea and the sky seem to be closer together today. The sky isn’t the infinite blue vastness above them. It’s in constant exchange with the sea, intimately connected, pouring down droplets of fresh water into the salty depths. And John and Sherlock are between these two elements, surrounded by the sea, breathing the cool, wet air. The further they swim away from the shore, the more John feels they’re becoming part of the water, the clouds, the wind and the waves. 

Swimming is harder today, the ocean isn’t easily conquered. They’re lifted up by the waves and pulled back towards the beach, it takes all their strength to swim further out. When they pause to look back, they’re both breathing hard and their hair is wet, although neither of them was diving. 

Sherlock brushes a dripping curl from his face, and spits out some sea water. 

“I love it when you do that,” John says without meaning to, still catching his breath. The words are out of his mouth before he knows it. 

“When I do what?” Sherlock asks just as breathlessly, a wave carrying first him, and then John, up a few inches. 

“When you spit into the sea,” John replies, because apparently, he can’t back out now. He doesn’t want to, either, but he’s cursing himself for the blush he feels heating his cheeks. 

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes, in that low voice that makes his chest resonate with the sound and vibrate the tiniest bit, in that low voice John can _feel_ when he kisses him. 

John would have expected Sherlock to look away, to seek shelter in the distance, but he doesn’t. John watches the raindrops fall on Sherlock’s face, run into his eyebrows and across his cheeks, across his lips. With the dove grey clouds hanging low in the sky and the jade sea around them, the light coppery tan of his skin is even more intense, and his eyes are even brighter. The warm shades of his skin, his lips and even his dark hair stand out in the cool light of this windy summer’s day. 

Sherlock looks at him, and it’s so intense that John wouldn’t be surprised to hear the low rumble of an approaching thunderstorm, to feel the air buzz with imminent lightning, threatening to discharge any second. 

But there is no thunderstorm. There’s just him, and Sherlock, and the rain pours down lightly, as if the raindrops barely weigh a thing. The air is charged, though, with powerful emotions they don’t dare name, with an attraction so strong they can feel it prickle under their skin. The grey waves carry them up and down, keeping them constantly in motion. 

After a long moment, Sherlock says, “Take a deep breath, John, and dive with me.” Surprise must be showing on John’s face, because Sherlock adds, “and don’t panic.” 

He casts a look, dark and longing, at John, and then John is left to watch him inhale and vanish into the ocean, just as the wave that is carrying him declines into a valley of water. John sees him, a few feet down in the sea, just in front of him, his dark hair and his white skin. And then he does the same as Sherlock, he inhales as much air as he can, and dives down into the grey-green water. 

John opens his eyes once he’s under the surface. He can’t see as much as he did a few days ago, the water is clouded with fine sand from the bottom of the sea, whirled up by the storm. 

Sherlock is in front of him, and he touches John’s arms, warm hands on John’s skin. He’s coming closer, John can see his face in the dim blur of the water. They’re both moving their legs, and the moment it takes them to coordinate their movements feels long. It feels like a waste of the short precious time they’ve got down here, holding their breath. 

Sherlock comes closer, so close that John can see every single bubble of air emerging from Sherlock’s nose, they glitter white, rising fast. Sherlock blinks, a few tiny bubbles caught in his lashes. Then he cups the back of John’s head and leans in, and John feels Sherlock’s lips on his. They feel so warm and alive, and so fucking _vulnerable_ in the cool water of the ocean. John’s heart beats faster, aching with care for Sherlock and the need to protect him. 

Sherlock opens his lips against John’s, and more bubbles cloud John’s vision. He closes his eyes and follows Sherlock’s lead, tasting salty water in his mouth. But then Sherlock’s tongue brushes against his own, and Sherlock’s lips close on his. The seawater vanishes as they deepen the kiss. And then it’s just them, deep down under the waves and a kiss that tastes like the sea. 

They kiss. Time stands still for as long as it takes their hearts to measure a few beats. They kiss, leaning in and drawing back a fraction, and leaning in again. They find their own rhythm of kissing and holding each other, slowly paddling their legs. They’re weightless under the sea, and there’s no sound but the low, surreal rush of the ocean. They’re so fucking alive, so fucking _together_. 

Sherlock pulls back, looks John in the eyes for a split second, and takes his hand. He pushes upwards, pulling John with him. John moves his legs, paddling towards the surface, and they’re up in an instant. 

Gasping for air, they tread water until they’ve caught their breath. It’s still raining. John watches Sherlock brush his wet hair from his face. 

After a moment, Sherlock meets John’s eyes. John feels excitement trickle through his body, sweet as a drug. Sherlock can do this to him with one look — he makes John feel excited, and so fucking special. He makes John feel as if they could accomplish anything together. John smiles. They’ve just done something he’d never even thought about — and if he had, he wouldn’t have thought it was possible to kiss underwater. Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with pride, and he grins. 

John blushes and splashes some water at him. Sherlock laughs as the water hits his face, but instead of splashing back at John, he quickly takes a large sip of water from the ocean and spits a mouthful at John, right in the face. For one moment, John is too fucking surprised to even react, and wipes the water from his face. He can’t help but laugh. What Sherlock’s just done feels so perfectly, painfully intimate. 

It’s not only Sherlock’s cheekiness that makes him laugh, but — all of this. That they’ve managed to get here. They’ve made it through last night, they’ve come out of it together. John’s so fucking relieved and so fucking happy. He’d love to kiss him again, but he doesn’t dare now that they’re up on the surface. 

“Madman,” John says instead, in a low voice full of laughter and emotion, and Sherlock smiles back at him. They look at each other for another long moment, letting the smiles slowly fade from their eyes and lips, to make room for something deeper, no less happy, but too big and too important to be captured in a mere smile. 

Sherlock wipes a drop of water from John’s eyebrow with his thumb. John leans into the touch, sighing, and on unspoken agreement, they tear their eyes away from each other, turn and head back to the shore. 

They swim back to the beach without another word. There’s nothing they need to say as they’re swimming next to each other, their hands almost touching as they rake their arms through the waves. They’re here, just the two of them. And there’s nothing in the world John would like better. 

In spite of the light rain, they dry themselves with their towels, rubbing grains of cool, wet sand against their skin. They head up to the camping site and have a hot shower, just long enough that their skin turns red with warmth. When they get back to John’s tent, wearing their shirts and shorts and jumpers again, and revelling in how warm and dry they feel, Harry and Gemma are sitting in front of it, wrapped in jackets. 

“Hey, where’ve you been all afternoon?” John asks, although he’s actually damn happy that Sherlock and he had some time alone. 

“Hanging out at the restaurant, reading, writing postcards,” Harry says, meeting John’s gaze with a hint of _I fucking well know what you’ve been up to, Johnny_. “You want to sign this one? It’s for mum.” 

“Sure,” John says lightly, pretending he didn’t get her wordless message, “just give me the pen.” 

He scribbles his name under Harry’s cheerful description of the camping site and the sea, of how they’re having a great time here, all of it written in the gently persuading tone that is only meant to convey _Don’t worry, mum, we’re doing absolutely fine_. 

Sherlock’s reading the postcard over John’s shoulder, leaning far too close. Gemma notices, and John can see the smirk in her eyes without even properly looking at her. 

“Right,” John says, handing the pen and postcard back to Harry, “thanks.” 

He looks at the girls and finds them gazing somewhat expectantly at Sherlock and him, as if waiting for something interesting or amusing to happen. He clears his throat, trying not to let himself be distracted. “Do you, er, have any plans for dinner? I’m starving.” 

“God, we’re far too lazy to cook today,” Harry says with a demonstrative yawn. “What d’you think about having something at the restaurant?” 

“Yeah. Great idea. Now?” John asks, and at the same time, he feels the light press of Sherlock’s hand in the small of his back, warm and reassuring, and for the hundredth time today, he could explode with fucking joy. 

— 

They meet James and Eddie at the restaurant, and Arnel, who’s just finished his shift at the shop. James and Eddie are sitting at one end of a large white plastic table, and Arnel brings an extra chair when he spots Harry, Gemma, John and Sherlock. 

They order pizza and chips, and two bottles of wine, agreeing to spend the evening here at the restaurant, since there’ll be no camp fire in this weather anyway. 

John listens to the others talking while he eats, and occasionally laughing and saying something. But if someone had asked him what they were actually talking about, he wouldn’t have known. It’s less about the conversation they’re having or about exchanging information than it is about being in contact with each other, now, with everything that’s happened. He has the feeling that everyone at the table is quite aware of what last night meant to Sherlock and him, that everyone understands the change that’s taken place. 

The others are so fucking at ease that John’s a little shocked. At first, he can’t pinpoint it, it’s not like he and Sherlock are behaving any differently today. He slowly realises that Sherlock has always sat this close to him, has always touched him, and that John has always watched him in the most mesmerized way. _Fucking hell. Did everyone see this before I did?_ He rubs his hand across his face to hide his embarrassment. 

Sherlock eats half of John’s pizza, taking the slices from John’s plate without even asking. When everyone’s finished eating and the second bottle of wine is almost empty, Sherlock takes out his cigarettes, opens the pack and looks at John, raising an eyebrow questioningly. 

John smiles. Of fucking course he wants to share a cigarette with Sherlock. 

Sherlock takes out a cigarette and slowly, deliberately puts it between John’s lips. He’s smiling, too, and it would be a gentle gesture if it weren’t for the challenge glittering in his eyes. It makes John’s heart beat like mad, and it’s difficult to grin and keep the cigarette in his mouth at the same time. 

Sherlock puts the pack on the table, and fishes the lighter out of his jeans pocket. John meets his eyes just before Sherlock leans in to light the cigarette. Sherlock’s eyes are shining with delight, and they’re so fucking beautiful that John has to lower his gaze, staring at Sherlock’s lips again. 

Oh God. Those lips. His heart skips a beat, and he wants to kiss Sherlock instead. 

As Sherlock leans closer, lighting John’s cigarette, he murmurs, “Inhale, John. Remember?” 

John wants to kiss him so much. 

They share the cigarette, and John can’t stop smiling the whole time. It feels perfect, smoking a cigarette with his man. John grins to himself as he thinks this. He doesn’t even try to keep up with the conversation any more, instead he looks at Sherlock’s hand on the arm rest of the chair, at his long fingers taking the cigarette from his own, at Sherlock’s stunning profile in the low evening light. John’s a little drunk, a little tired, and he’s never been happier. 

Sherlock drags on the cigarette, slowly exhaling the smoke a moment later. He turns to John, handing him the cigarette. John sees Sherlock gaze at his lips and something hungry and yearning is darkening Sherlock’s eyes. He blinks and looks up at John, who almost drops the cigarette as he watches him. 

They aren’t even finished smoking when Sherlock starts to shift in his chair. He nudges John’s leg under the table, and John looks at him. Sherlock’s eyes are still dark, and he nods almost imperceptibly in the direction of their tent. John swallows, feeling his skin heat under Sherlock’s gaze, and nods back. 

“God, I’m tired. Didn’t exactly sleep much last night,” Sherlock mutters under his breath a moment later, and gets up. John hastily downs the last of his wine, rising from his chair. 

“Yeah, I guess, I’ll just — you know,” he says, nodding after Sherlock, who’s already halfway out of the restaurant. He feels like an idiot. 

Oh great, Watson. You couldn’t have been any more obvious if you’d just told them, ‘I need to have sex with him now, if you’ll excuse us.’ 

James says something John doesn’t even pay attention to, Harry quirks an eyebrow and smiles a lopsided smile. Arnel just looks happy. 

John leaves before his blush gets too bad, and a minute later he catches up with Sherlock, who is a few steps ahead of him, walking down the path to John’s tent in the cool evening air. 

“There you are,” Sherlock says in a low voice as John arrives at his side. The rain has stopped and in some places, the layer of cloud is breaking up, allowing the sky to shine through. It is an intense blue somewhere between cobalt and indigo, tinged with shades of sunset hidden by the clouds in the distance. 

“Here I am,” John replies, a little out of breath, not quite knowing what to say. He brushes his hand against Sherlock’s, unsure if he should take it, although there’s no-one else around. For a few moments they just walk next to each other, hands brushing in the rhythm of their steps. Then Sherlock takes his hand, and doesn’t let go. 

John is so happy that, for a split second, he closes his eyes for and bites his lips as he walks, holding Sherlock’s hand. He casts Sherlock a sideways glance, incapable of understanding that all of this is really happening. 

They walk through the dusk back to John’s tent. John spots a few stars where the clouds have opened up and smiles at the night sky. 

John crawls into the tent first, stumbling over Sherlock’s book and just avoiding crushing the Discman with his knee. There’s less space now, with Sherlock’s stuff, and it’s darker than John would have expected. Sherlock crawls inside as well, and suddenly John feels lost for a moment, nervous, as though his courage has deserted him. 

But Sherlock is moving beside him. After a heartbeat John hears a soft rustle, and realises that he’s taking off his clothes. As his eyes adapt to the darkness, John can see the contours of Sherlock’s body, and eventually his skin gleams in a blueish shade of white in the dim light. John licks his lips and feels his throat go dry. His breathing is shallow and fast, and he tries not to sound too nervous. By the time Sherlock is naked, John can make out his face, and even his eyes. 

Sherlock comes closer to John. He looks at him with intense, hungry eyes, before gently combing his fingers through John’s hair. He’s tousling it, running his fingers through, across his scalp until he cups the back of his head. John’s heart is beating faster and his exhales sound loud in the tent. There have been so many kisses today, so many touches, and he’s not getting the slightest bit used to it. He doesn’t fear being rejected anymore, or that it might be over before it has even begun, but — but his heart is drumming against his ribcage all the same. 

Sherlock kisses John slowly, pulling the zip of John’s hoody down. John can smell him, he takes a few quick breaths in. He’s intoxicated by Sherlock’s scent. John brushes his hands hesitantly across Sherlock’s shoulders, his pectorals, and all over his body. He feels Sherlock’s warm naked skin and the muscles underneath, he runs his fingers through his curls and feels the soft strands of his hair. He hears Sherlock’s soft groans, and all of this is enough to make him hard. 

Sherlock starts to undress John, first he peels his hoody off his body, and then he pulls his t-shirt over John’s head. John lies down on the sleeping mat, his heart is skipping a beat when Sherlock opens his shorts and pulls them down. He’s never been undressed like this. Sherlock doesn’t tease, he doesn’t even do it with much finesse. This isn’t a slow, tantalising seduction. He undresses John, carefully and efficiently, but with an underlying pulse of impatience and desire. 

Sherlock slips his fingers into the elastic of John’s boxers, they’re warm on his skin, and John holds his breath, trying to slow down his wildly beating heart. It’s so fucking exciting, so very new, being naked with Sherlock — sleeping with Sherlock. Sherlock’s breathing faster, too, stripping John of his last pieces of clothing. 

Once John’s naked, Sherlock brushes his fingers across John’s cock. 

John gasps involuntarily, feeling his cock twitch at Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock leans down to kiss him. John groans when Sherlock licks into his mouth and straddles him, just low enough on his hips so he can still touch John’s cock. 

Their kiss deepens, it takes on an edge of desperate passion. John doesn’t know who starts moving, but they gradually fall into a slow rhythm of rolling hips, cocks touching. Sherlock wraps his hand around them, and the noise John makes now is a desperate, high-pitched sigh. 

When they break their kiss for a moment, John lifts his head and looks down at them. John’s skin is almost as bright as Sherlock’s in the darkness. He can see their cocks in the shadows of their bodies. He can see their pubic hair, and Sherlock’s hand holding them both — and it looks breathtaking, so fucking hot. John groans again, letting his head fall back on the towel. 

Sherlock bends lower to kiss him, moving on top of him. John wants to whisper _Oh God yes_ against his lips, but he can’t, he needs to kiss him, to taste him, to feel him. Sherlock moves slowly, just slowly enough to make John hungry for more. John only notices that Sherlock has fished the bottle of lube out of his bag and slicked his hand when the sensation on his cock intensifies. He’s about to combust with desire, he needs to feel even more of Sherlock, to be touched a little harder. 

They love each other slowly. They never speed up. Their breaths hitch, their hands roam across each other’s bodies, and hold on as tight as they can. They whisper their names into the darkness, gasping them as arousal claims them and eventually, they float towards orgasm. They kiss open-mouthed, not knowing where caressing each other with their lips ends and where kissing begins. 

When John finally comes, his climax is a sweet, slow wave rolling through his body. He feels how Sherlock is being swept away as well, and the way he whispers John’s name over and over again sounds like sobs. 

A long time later, Sherlock sinks down on John’s chest, burying his head in the crook of his neck. John feels him breathing. He’s so calm now, so tired. He lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s back, too exhausted even to stroke him for the moment. He closes his eyes. 

He’s almost asleep when, for some reason, it occurs to him how much time he and Sherlock will have together, here. It’s Thursday night, now, almost Friday. 

As far as John knows, Sherlock’s leaving sometime at the end of next week, just like them — Harry, Gemma and him. Harry’s booked a train back to England for Saturday morning. So they’ve got a whole fucking week. He smiles. _A whole week with Sherlock._ They’ll be together during the day, at the beach, or in the sea. They’ll be together, in the evening, at the campfire; smoking, drinking wine, listening to music on Sherlock’s Discman. They’ll be together, at night, like this. No parents, no school, no-one to demand anything from them. No-one gets to decide on how they spend their time. _Fucking perfect,_ he thinks. 

And then he tries to silence the panic boiling up underneath the joy. He tries to ignore the voice that cuts at his insides like a shard of glass. The voice that wants more, that wants _everything._ The voice that wants a fucking lifetime together, that yells _Just_ one _week? Just one_ week _?_

He’s awake again, and he needs to talk to Sherlock, to hear his voice. It doesn’t matter what Sherlock says, John just needs to hear him. He strokes Sherlock’s back and tries to focus on the freedom they’ve got here, on all the uninterrupted hours together. Eventually he calms down a little. 

He thinks of the time they’ve spent together so far. He thinks of eating together, of swimming together, of walks along the shore at night, on their way back to the camping site. He thinks of the sea. 

“Sherlock?” he asks eventually, just a whisper in the intimate silence of the dark tent. 

“Hmmm…?” Sherlock must be almost asleep. 

“How did you know about the sea sparkle?” 

“Boredom. Started to study the sea.” He brushes a kiss against John’s neck. “There really wasn’t much else to do around here, John.” 

John smiles into the darkness for a long time, feeling Sherlock’s chest rise and fall with his slow, sleepy breathing. He remembers how Sherlock observing the sea, remembers the book he’d read. He remembers that Sherlock said he wanted to show the sea sparkle to John. He must have planned it all along, since the moment that John had told him he was intimidated by the dark, deep sea. 

“You’re a fucking romantic, Sherlock.” 

“I was fucking bored,” Sherlock says, with a sleep-rough voice. 

John chuckles. 

“You’re not any more?” John asks, because somehow, this question needs to be asked. 

John imagines the clouds outside, finally drifting apart completely, evaporating into the night. They’ll reveal a dark blue sky, stretching out endlessly. Countless stars glittering above the tent, hidden from John and Sherlock by its fabric, but no less a miracle. 

Sherlock kisses John, slowly and deeply. John feels Sherlock’s breath stroke across his lips when he speaks. 

“Never, with you.” 


	14. Chapter 14

A vague feeling of unease settles in John’s body, tensing his shoulders and taking away the last remnants of sleepy easiness. Before John even opens his eyes, and before he is really, fully awake, the basal, more instinctive parts of his mind sense that the air in the tent is charged. 

John stirs, unable to drift off again, he can hear the low swoosh of the waves and the wind, intertwining with the usual gentle background noise of this place. It isn’t as cool as it was yesterday, the air warmer on his naked skin. He feels Sherlock’s body pressed against his, one long leg slotted between his own, a hand resting on his belly, rising and falling with his own breathing. If he stretched out his hand, he’d touch Sherlock’s face. Even without looking, he already knows where Sherlock’s head rests next to his own on the sleeping mat. He exhales, happy, despite the low, almost imperceptible tension the air seems to be humming with. Everything appears calm. 

He’s tired, although he must have slept for hours and hours. He wants to drift off again and fall asleep, Sherlock’s skin on his. And yet the air remains charged, lacking the innocence and defencelessness of slumber. 

John opens his eyes. The sun must be rising outside, the early morning light seeping through the fabric of the tent is clear and not as dim as it was yesterday. Even without being able to see, he knows that the clouds must have vanished entirely, making room for the azure sky above them. 

He turns his head. Sherlock is lying on his side, _watching_ John. 

Sherlock’s blue-green eyes are only half-open. His body still seems sleepy, resting, but his mind is wide awake. His eyes give it away, unmistakably. They’re already taking in the world, or, in this case, John. 

Neither John nor Sherlock put any clothes on last night, and they’re still naked under the sleeping bag that’s wrapped around their legs. John looks at him for a long moment, feeling his lips curl into a smile, now that he knows that Sherlock watching him was the reason for his feeling of unease. Sherlock, sleep-tousled and naked, open and unguarded. Nobody ever gets to see him like this. 

“Hey,” John croaks, and swallows. “You’re watching me,” he adds, a little disbelievingly. 

“You’re fascinating when you’re asleep,” Sherlock says in a low, intimate voice, and he sounds intrigued. 

John looks at him for a moment, raising his eyebrows in surprise. Then he lifts his hand to brush a curl away from Sherlock’s face. How did he end up here with Sherlock? What’s he done right to make his life take this turn? Waking up in his tent with Sherlock feels like a sunny morning, like the world new and open, like all worries wiped away. Like the promise that things will turn out good, very good, better than he’d ever dared hope. It’s the best fucking feeling. 

The curl falls back into its old place on Sherlock’s forehead, its s-shaped tail hanging in front of his right eye. John brushes it away again, trying to tug it back into the mass of Sherlock’s other curls. He gently combs his hand through Sherlock’s hair, for longer than necessary, just because he can’t believe how soft it feels. Sherlock’s fucking silky curls are something entirely different than his own short hair. John’s hair never feels like this, but maybe he’s never touched it with this amount of affection. 

Sherlock is craning his neck ever so slightly, leaning into the touch of John’s fingers in his curls and on his scalp. 

“Am I? Always thought I’d just have my eyes closed, maybe snore a little. Never knew it might be fascinating,” John yawns. 

“Bloody fascinating,” Sherlock replies, still not speaking up. He moves, starting to ghost his fingertips across the skin on John’s arm. John pulls his hand from Sherlock’s hair and threads his fingers between Sherlock’s. “You woke up approximately one minute and forty seconds after I started watching you,” Sherlock adds. 

“Oh? Is that quick?” 

“How should I know?” rumbles Sherlock. “I’ve never woken up with someone like this.” 

He holds John’s gaze as he says it, and John’s skin starts to prickle with the inkling that he might be special, _really_ special to Sherlock. It’s intoxicating. This is what he imagines drugs must feel — like pure happiness poured into one’s veins. This is why he’s so scared of them. 

“Neither have I,” John breathes. 

“But…,” Sherlock murmurs, and pauses, “there were girls. At least two.” There’s a hint of caution in his voice. He sounds as though he’s bracing himself for the answer. 

“Yes. Three — actually. To be honest,” John admits, his voice suddenly dry and raspy. “But never like this. Never even remotely like this.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a moment. He keeps watching John, and John can’t quite tell if his eyes are still half-closed because he’s just woken up, or if it’s his intent way of observation. 

“Oh,” Sherlock hums eventually, as if carefully filing this information away for further use. 

After a few more seconds that feel very, very long, something changes. An expression of exasperation flickers across Sherlock’s eyes, and he sighs, “But I used to watch Mycroft when he woke.” 

Mycroft. John’s heart clenches. Sherlock’s never mentioned that name before. Oh dammit, Watson! Shut it, Sherlock said he hasn’t had sex with anyone before you, and _you’re_ the one who’s already had three girlfriends, so get your shit together! 

He takes a deep breath, trying to sound casual. 

“Mycroft?” 

“My brother. — Wait, are you jealous?” Sherlock turns his head to look at John, gaze piercing. 

“No! No.” John feels exposed, and blushes. “Mycroft’s your brother? The one… you’d have stayed with during the holidays, if you hadn’t come here?” he asks quickly, trying to draw the conversation away from the fact that he is indeed jealous. He swallows. Fuck, he hadn’t even known he gets jealous. He’s never been jealous before. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, still scrutinising him. 

“Is he… your only sibling? You said he’s older, right?” 

“Yes, thank God there’s only one of him. He’s 24, and he’s a pompous arse. He lives in London and he wants to run the British Government by the time he’s forty.” Sherlock turns on his back, still holding John’s hand, and starts to watch the blue fabric of the tent above them. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even blink. He must be completely lost in thought. 

“Oh. Right.” John pauses. Suddenly he’s unsure whether he should tear Sherlock out of his thoughts. “And you — you’ve watched him wake up?” 

“Yes. When I was a kid and he was home from boarding school, I’d sneak up into his room and watch him while he woke up. I was conducting an experiment and I already knew what my parents looked like when they woke up. I was in need of a new subject, obviously,” Sherlock explains, still staring at the cotton and polyester ceiling of the tent. He’s wearing a far-away expression, and John knows that images of his childhood must be flickering across his mind’s eye. 

“Obviously,” John repeats. “What kind of experiment was that?” 

“I think I titled it ‘What do people look like when they wake up and how long does it take them’,” Sherlock says with a lopsided smile. 

“Of course,” John chuckles. “I guess Mycroft didn’t like it?” 

Sherlock turns his head to look at John and his eyes are beaming with mischief. “He _hated_ it. And he was much slower than you to realise I was watching him. So yes, you’re quick.” 

John has to laugh. He’s irrationally proud of this compliment, probably the weirdest one he’s ever been paid. He tries to picture a younger, smaller version of Sherlock in his pyjamas, tiptoeing into his brother’s bedroom at the first crack of dawn. Sherlock with a softer, rounder and more child-like face framed by chaotic curls, watching the world around him with alert and curious eyes. 

“How old were you?” 

“Five.” Sherlock smiles. “Or six.” 

They lie there for a moment, on their bed of sleeping mats and towels. John feels Sherlock’s legs against his, and watches Sherlock’s profile. He looks at his chest, at the elegant curves of his ribs and the long slope of his belly. He wants to touch every inch of him. Always. 

But there’s an intimacy to their talk that feels precious in its own way. Sherlock rarely shares things like these, and John craves to know more, to know everything. But he doesn’t want to push too far and scare Sherlock away, so he chooses his words with care. He asks as little as he can, just enough to keep the conversation going. 

“Do you get on, you and Mycroft?” 

“Not really. For the past fifteen years he’s been too busy pointing out that he’s the smart one.” 

John huffs a laugh. Sounds like a pompous arse indeed. 

“You must be quite a family.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply for a moment. He’s back to staring at the tent a few feet above his head. He’s thinking, John can see it in the way he furrows his brow and tenses his lips. Finally Sherlock turns his head again, looking at their intertwined hands. 

“They don’t understand me. I don’t think they ever have.” 

John doesn’t know what to reply, so he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes you just don’t feel very understood by the people closest to you, and you can be fucking alone even though you’re actually not. 

“How about your family? Do they understand you?” Sherlock asks, looking at him. 

John inhales, raising his eyebrows. He thinks of his mum, of the talks they’ll need to have once he’s back. About med school and — about Sherlock. Maybe. The thought of it makes him nervous, but he’s also determined. He knows he can count on her, but often only under certain conditions, only if things will work out how their mum needs them to. It always feels as if they could get on well, if only the necessities of life weren’t always in the way. Too much shit to deal with to be easy with each other. 

He thinks of his dad, and he has to keep himself from clenching the hand Sherlock is holding. John’s never felt so — he tries to find the right word, and it takes him a moment to find it. He’s never felt so _betrayed,_ by anyone. So let down. As if he’d done something wrong and had no idea what it was, even years later. Seeing his dad turn from Dad — _his dad,_ strong and big and protection for Harry and him from all the harm in the world, _his dad,_ who used to lift him up and throw him into the air with his bare hands — into someone he simply doesn’t recognize any more was one of the most unsettling things he’s ever experienced. He hasn’t even seen him since the divorce. Maybe his dad wouldn’t recognize him any more. He clenches his jaw. 

At last, John thinks of Harry. He goes over the talks they’ve had since they’ve been here, over her coming out to him, and it feels like forever since then. He thinks of his own coming out, which might not even have been possible without her help. He thinks of how she reacted when Sherlock was high, and he’s immeasurably proud of her. He’s still worried about her tendency to drink. But he has the impression that it’s got a lot better since Gemma became part of her life a few weeks ago. He relaxes again, feeling his chest go wide with contentment, his lips curling with a smile. This holiday has changed so much between them. 

“Harry does.” 

After a moment of silence, Sherlock cautiously squeezes his hand. 

“I know,” he says. 

John swallows, and runs his thumb across Sherlock’s knuckles. The sun has risen further and starts to shining directly on the tent. The inside of the tent glows bright yellow and blue. There definitely won’t be clouds or rain today. 

John turns to Sherlock, brushing that stubborn curl from his face once again. He tries to find the right words to tell him how fucking grateful he is for everything. He wants to tell him that Sherlock means the bloody world to him and that he feels — a fuckload of things for him. But instead, his stomach growls with hunger, and Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. 

“You’ll demand breakfast now,” Sherlock states drily. 

John swallows down his half-formed confessions, and replies, “Guess I will.” 

Sherlock turns to dig through the clothes he’d brought, leaving John to watch his naked back and buttocks. John’ mouth goes dry at the sight. 

— 

There isn’t much left for breakfast, so John gets his wallet from his tent. They walk to the small shop, eating the few last bites of yesterday’s dry bread on their way. Arnel is working already and smiles when he spots them. They trudge through the short aisles of the shop, past a handful of other tired customers. On the radio, Blur’s _Girls and Boys_ is playing. John smiles as he hums along with the chorus, and collects a pack of brioches _,_ two baguettes and some milk for the coffee, while Sherlock grabs a glass of Nutella. 

“Sweet tooth, hm?” John asks. 

“The sweetest,” Sherlock replies, shooting John a long look that has nothing to do with chocolate spread. It makes John blush fiercely. 

He hasn’t nearly composed himself when they’re standing in front of the counter, facing a cheerful, smiling Arnel. 

“ _Bon matin,”_ Arnel says, typing the prices into the cash register. 

“Hey Arnel,” John says. Between taking their goods and reading the small price labels, Arnel meets John’s eyes, still smiling. John has to think of the first time he’d seen him at the campfire, and he cringes slightly as he remembers how wrong he was about Arnel. He thinks of what Sherlock’s told him, that Arnel has to work to pay for his studies, that because he’s gay, his family refuses to support him. He’s gay. He’s queer. Just like John’s… queer, too. Suddenly the moment feels bigger than just getting some groceries, a few things for breakfast. John can’t stop thinking, _Hey, we’re on the same side. I’m with Sherlock now. I’m bisexual. I’m queer, too._

He wants to say it. _I’m queer._ He doesn’t know if it needs to be put into words, if he can say it out loud, here, in a small shop on a fucking ordinary campsite somewhere in France, while a queue of other guests slowly forms behind him, a mother with a toddler on her arm, two elderly men, a few kids who look about primary-school age. 

_I’m queer._ It’s silly, it’s fucking ridiculous, because Sherlock and Arnel fucking well know, and… yet. He’s tempted to say it, he’s almost ready for it, just to hear it, to feel the words on his tongue. 

“Hey, John, _veux-tu quelque chose d’autre?”_ In spite of his Spanish accent the way Arnel pronounces his name sounds more like _Jean,_ and it’s enough to tear John out of his thoughts. 

“ _Oui, des Gauloises bleues, s’il te plait,”_ Sherlock jumps in, effortlessly changing into French. He places his hand close to John’s on the counter, touching his pinky finger in a way that feels everything but accidental. 

Arnel puts a pack of Sherlock’s brand of cigarettes into the white plastic bag containing their goods. He hacks the price into the register and finally says, “34 francs.” 

Arnel smiles at John, holding his gaze a moment longer as if to say, I know, _Jean,_ we’ve all been there. 

John’s strangely grateful for this silent understanding. He hands Arnel the money, while Sherlock takes the plastic bag and strides to the door. John manages a smile and a quick “Bye, see you later, Arnel,” and follows Sherlock. 

The whole way back to the tents, John is thinking about what to say to Sherlock. Just before Gemma’s tent comes into sight, he manages, “I… I got a little distracted for a moment. At the shop.” 

“I know,” Sherlock says, sounding not at all surprised. 

“How do you… God, did I say anything?” He’s horrified at the thought that he might have let some of his thoughts slip. 

“Your emotions are written all over your face,” Sherlock says, fidgeting with the pack of cigarettes he’s already fished out of the shopping bag. John hears a smile in Sherlock’s voice, but there’s also tension. And that’s what keeps him, in the end, from asking all the question running round and round inside his head — what being queer is like for Sherlock, if he’s actually out, and what it was like for him, and how the fuck he even did it. 

Harry and Gemma are sitting in front of their tent now, and the coffee’s ready by the time John and Sherlock get there. 

“Oh, you got something for breakfast. You’re the best, thank you,” Harry says, handing each of them a mug of coffee. 

They sit and have breakfast. John can’t stop wondering what’s made Sherlock tense, and he wants to ease it. He looks at him over bites of his brioche. What is Sherlock thinking? John lets him steal half his brioche with Nutella and hopes that he’ll understand how much John cares for him. 

Once they’ve finished breakfast and the girls have gone to clean the dishes, they lounge in the shade on the bench, reading and watching the sea. John tries to read his battered crime novel and Sherlock skims through the book on Marine Biology. He sits next to John at first, then shifts and gradually changes his position until he’s leaning against John’s shoulder, bordering on too close to be just friends. But the people walking by don’t care, they don’t even see. They’re keeping their eyes fixed on the steep path down the hill, making sure not to trip over, or they’re watching out for their friends or family at the beach. John and Sherlock are hidden in plain sight, and John enjoys every second of being so casually close to Sherlock. 

Eventually, Gemma and Harry pass on their way down to the beach. Gemma’s arm is around Harry’s shoulders, and they walk past them first, but then Harry stops and turns. 

“Hey, are you two coming to the beach as well?” 

John tilts his head to look at Sherlock, who’s still leaning against his shoulder. Sherlock nods without lifting his gaze from the article on octopuses he’s reading. 

“Give us five minutes, Harry,” John says. Harry grins at him. 

They take their towels, books, sun cream and sunglasses, something to drink and the leftovers from breakfast to the beach. Gemma and Harry are setting up the makeshift sunshade again; the sticks were dislodged by the thunderstorm. Sherlock briefly meets John’s eyes and plunges the supports back into the sand, but in a slightly different position. When they knot the faded blue linen to the sticks again, John can see that it doesn’t only shelter them from the sun, but from the view of most of the people on the beach as well. He still doesn’t quite know what to think, why Sherlock’s done this — but maybe it’s for the best, for now. It’s all still so fucking new. 

They put their towels next to Harry and Gemma’s. Finally, John sits down, and looks at the waves, so close to him down here, just ten feet away. Sherlock slumps down on his towel next to him. The sun warms John’s skin as the sea breeze cools it, and it feels marvellous. It feels like summer. 

Sherlock gets a bottle of sun cream from the pile of things he’s brought, and starts putting it on his arms and legs, on his face and chest. John watches him spreading it; Sherlock’s body is becoming familiar to him so quickly. When Sherlock’s almost done, he wordlessly hands the bottle to John and lies down on his belly. John kneels besides him, pours a dollop of sun cream on his hand and starts to massage it onto Sherlock’s shoulders and back. Touching him like this is enough to let his thoughts stray to last night, to yesterday. He can almost hear Sherlock’s breathless gasps and feel him move his body against his. John wants to bow down to kiss his nape, to bite the skin on his neck. He wants to straddle Sherlock and roll his hips against his arse, and show Sherlock what this is doing to him. 

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t even touch him much longer than necessary, he only lets his hand rest on the small of Sherlock’s back for an instant, just to show him that this was special to him. 

John sits back on his own towel and sloppily rubs some sun cream on his forearms, his face and the parts of his shoulder he can reach by himself. He looks at Sherlock. After a moment, Sherlock turns his head towards him and smiles, squinting his eyes against the sun. 

Sherlock goes back to reading. John sits on his towel, taking in the waves that roll in on the shore. He feels gloriously lazy. There’s fucking _nothing_ he has to do today. Maybe it would be nice to eat something later on, maybe get a little drunk at the campfire tonight, and sleep with Sherlock. He grins. Definitely sleep with Sherlock. 

John stretches out his hand, resting his fingers just close enough to touch Sherlock’s. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile as he reads. 

The feeling of these holidays is... this. Feeling that Sherlock’s here, beside him, touching him, and the prospect of making to love to him, some time later. He smiles as he sinks down on his back, and closes his eyes. 

As he’s lying there in the sun, allowing his body and mind to relax, images of the past days float to the surface. There’s a stark contrast between the frustration and anger that battled inside him just two days ago, overlaying his confusion as he realised he felt things for Sherlock he wouldn’t have thought possible. Now everything has fallen into place. Somehow he made it through. 

Sometimes, he’s nervous, even uncertain. It’s all so fucking new. He doesn’t quite know yet how to navigate his life knowing he’s bisexual, that he’s queer. But he isn’t scared any more, and he isn’t fighting himself. He feels more like himself than he has in years. He was ready to say that he’s queer in public today. He didn’t, but — almost. He’s proud. 

He’s also a bit nervous, because there’ll be things he and Sherlock have to figure out — how their relationship can work, how they actually want it to work. He swallows at the words ‘their relationship’. Bloody hell, he thinks, but that’s what they have, isn’t it? His heart beats a bit faster with joy, and he bites his lips to keep his grin at bay. The most important thing is that they’re _this,_ that they’re somehow starting to be _Sherlock and John._ Words are too small to convey just how right it feels, how much more it is than he’d ever have dared imagine. 

Joy is seeping into his body from the place where his hand rests against Sherlock’s. It spreads through his body like liquid gold, filling the empty spaces where his doubts and his fear used to live. It gently eases the knot in his stomach, tied by his reluctance to face the fact that he’s more than straight, and that he’s in love with Sherlock. The knot dissolves, and finally, calm settles next to the joy inside him. It pulses slowly through his body like a heartbeat that isn’t his own, like the rhythm of the ocean, washing its waves against the shore. 

He has to think of how he was sitting at the campfire two nights ago, still caught in the struggle to understand being in love with Sherlock. _God, this can’t be true,_ he’d thought, close to panic, so afraid of falling in love. _And yet you are,_ John tells his younger, troubled self. He tries to send this former John all the knowledge he has now, all the things he lets himself feel for Sherlock now, and all his confidence. When the image eventually begins to fade from his mind, he has the impression he’s accomplished something important. He feels sleepy. 

He lies in the sun, enjoying the contentment that comes with knowing he’s done something right. With a small smile on his face, he dozes off. He sleeps soundly while Sherlock reads next to him, while the seagulls cry above them, while the waves keep rolling in. He rests for a long time, as if months and months and maybe years of not daring to understand are finally taking their toll. 

Later, when John wakes, something heavy is lying on his belly. The urge to tense his stomach muscles brings him back to reality quicker than he’d have liked. 

It’s Sherlock’s head. John rubs his face, opens his eyes and lifts his head to see what the hell Sherlock is doing, but he stops when he sees him. He chokes as a wave of emotion and affection floods his body, still incapable to grasp that all of this is really happening, and that now, Sherlock is bedding his head on John’s belly. Fucking hell, Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s lying sideways against him, his head on John’s stomach (and God, it’s really fucking heavy), reading John’s crime novel. One hand lies across his forehead, against the sun. John runs his fingers across Sherlock’s shoulder, pressed against his side. Sherlock can’t be more than thirty pages into the novel, or maybe he just flipped the book open on a random page in the first few chapters. 

“The neighbour’s the murderer. The slightly compulsive one. It’s absolutely clear—” Sherlock mumbles without looking up at John. 

“I still wanted to read that book, Sherlock,” John interrupts him, fully awake by now. He can’t help but laugh. Madman. 

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock states, furrowing his brows, still skimming through the page of the book as he speaks. “You were horribly bored by it and preferred to watch me instead whenever possible. Now you can do that without feeling obliged to finish reading this disaster of a crime novel. The neighbour killed the four victims. He’ll be caught just before he can murder a fifth one, dramatic and unrealistic rescue scene, there you go,” he concludes. “And as for the second plot line, the DI does get to shag the beautiful yet shy woman from forensics, as far I as I can tell.” 

John laughs. He wants to kiss him so badly. Sherlock turns his head, looking slightly surprised at John’s reaction. 

“You’re mad,” John chuckles. “How did you know?” 

Sherlock puts the book face down on his belly and stretches his arms. “Crime is fascinating. It’s a riddle, a puzzle, but so much less boring, so much less predictable,” he yawns. 

John squints his eyes. “You like that? Crime stories?” 

“Not crime _stories_ , John. Crime.” Sherlock brushes a curl from his face and smiles. 

“Crime? How do you know about crime?” John tries to picture Sherlock’s father as police officer, but no, it doesn’t feel right. 

“I read the papers. In 1989, a young kid — champion swimmer — came up to London from Brighton for a school sports tournament, and drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. He had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong, something I couldn’t get out of my head.” 

“What?” John asks, drawn in immediately. He’s never heard Sherlock sound so intrigued, and his excitement is contagious. 

“His shoes,” Sherlock says, turning his head to John. 

“What about them?” 

“They weren’t there. I made a fuss, I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes.” 

John can see how much Sherlock is enjoying this; his eyes are beaming. He wonders how anyone had been able to withstand Sherlock like this. 

“Did you find them?” John asks. He wishes he’d been there with him, back in 1989\. 

“No. No-one let me near the crime scene. Or the body.” There’s resignation in Sherlock’s voice. 

“Near the body? You wanted to see the body? At age — 12?” John snorts. And he’s impressed as hell. 

“Of course I’d have liked to see it,” Sherlock says indignantly. “But as I said, the police didn’t listen.” 

“So no-one ever found out what really happened?” 

“No. I didn’t solve it.” 

John watches Sherlock as he stares into the sky. He’s lost in thought once again, and neither of them says anything for a long time. Suddenly John can picture Sherlock on a crime scene, crouched next to a dead body, searching for clues only he can see. John smiles. He has to tell Sherlock some time. But for now he just says, “That book actually is a disaster.” 

“Absolutely,” Sherlock laughs, and his laughter is a low, beautiful rumble that John will never get tired of hearing. 

They lie there for a bit longer, and John listens to Sherlock predict the whole crime story while they eat the food they brought with them. As time passes, the sound of the waves takes on a tempting note, and John gets restless. They go for a swim, and John closes his eyes and dives, just feeling the cool water streaming along his body, knowing that Sherlock’s right beside him. He’s so at ease in the sea now, he’s become familiar with it. He knows what it’s like on a calm sunny day like this, but he also knows it in the darkness of the night, and he knows some of the secrets it holds. He knows its troubled, windswept waves during a storm, and he’s learned what the ocean looks like — feels like — when you vanish from its surface and allow yourself to sink into its depths. 

They spend some time close to the shore where the water isn’t that deep, where they can still feel the sandy ground beneath their feet. Harry and Gemma are swimming, too, and they wave at them from further down the shore. Sherlock tells him things he’s read up on in his book on marine biology. John listens to his voice, watching the water glistening on Sherlock’s skin, on the muscles of his arms, on his shoulders and his back. He spots tiny droplets getting caught in the fine light hair on his skin and in the dip of his navel. He laughs to himself at the sheer fucking beauty of it, and Sherlock stops talking when he catches John’s gaze. Sherlock tilts his head, trying to determine why John’s so happy. When he understands, he laughs as well, barely audible over the gurgling of the waves, biting his lips and looking out towards the glistening line of the horizon. 

John licks his lips and vows to himself that he’ll go swimming naked with Sherlock again, sometime in the next few days. But he doesn’t want to swim in the dark of the night, he wants to see Sherlock. It would be the most daring thing he’s ever done, but now that he’s hadthe idea, he can’t take it back, and he doesn’t want to. He’ll find a way to actually do this, although he doesn’t have the slightest clue how yet. 

Eventually they swim out further. They swim as fast as they can, challenging each other. When they’re both out of breath and Sherlock has to admit defeat this time, they head back to the beach. They walk across the baking hot sand to the blue linen that shelters their spot, fluttering in the breeze. The towels are deserted, Gemma and Harry still out at sea. 

They drop down onto their towels with heaving chests. John feels the rays of the sun warming his cool, wet skin. The water dries on his forearms and shoulders, other places are still completely wet — his nape, the backs of his knees, the crooks of his elbows. 

Sherlock turns to sit sideways on his towel and a moment later, he lies down and rests his head on John’s belly again. John feels the water from Sherlock’s hair run down his sides. It isn’t cold, it’s warmed by Sherlock’s body, by his warm blood pulsing through myriads of fine blood vessels in his skin, and by the sun. He hesitantly runs a finger through Sherlock’s wet curls. Sherlock looks up for a moment, smiling at him open-mouthed, breathing quickly. 

John’s mouth is salty from the seawater he’d swallowed. He’s thirsty. He props himself up on his elbows, takes their water bottle and drinks. He tries not to move too much with Sherlock on his belly, but it’s fucking uncomfortable. The large plastic bottle is still full, and it’s heavy. 

John feels water running down his chin as he drinks. He also feels Sherlock’s gaze on him, following the trickle of water down his neck until it pools in the small dip at the base, between the clavicles. John puts the bottle down gracelessly, thumping it into the sand, and somehow he manages to put the top back on with just one hand. 

He remembers the last time water had run down his chin as he drank. He thinks of the way Sherlock touched him that night, how he brushed his thumb across John’s skin, on their way down to the beach, and his heart beats just the way it did then. 

When John meets Sherlock’s eyes, a shiver runs down his back in spite of the warmth of the sun. He can see that Sherlock, too, is thinking of all those charged moments between them. All those times when they turned away from each other, not daring to act on the tension they felt buzzing between them. John recalls those sensations of untouched skin in every meticulous detail, and he feels desire and fascination prickling under his skin again. 

He slowly licks his lips, catching the last droplets of the water he’s just drunk. Sherlock keeps watching him. He’s taking in the way John’s tongue touches his lips as intently as he just watched the water running down John’s skin. It’s delicious, being watched like this. It’s like the dream John had had a few days ago, like being watched while he was naked in the sea. He’s getting hard in his wet swimming trunks. They’re sticking to his skin and in a few moments’ time they’ll give away his arousal. He forces himself to inhale and watches Sherlock, with his head still lying heavily on his belly, moving with the rhythm of John’s breathing. 

Sherlock slowly reaches out his hand and lightly runs two fingers down John’s chin and neck. He grazes them across the millimetre of dark blond stubble, following the path of the water, until he reaches the soft dip between John’s clavicles. Sherlock watches his own fingers on John’s tanned, wet skin, as if he doesn’t quite believe this is real. His touch is a sweet tease — because John knows that it isn’t meant to be one. Sherlock isn’t making a show, he isn’t playing a game. Desire starts to pulse quicker through John’s body. 

John swallows. When Sherlock lifts his gaze to John’s, the look in his eyes takes John’s breath away. It speaks of Sherlock’s need to touch him, to be close to him; maybe to understand the minor miracle of how they are this way. Neither of them needs to say a word. They’re going to have sex. Now. 

They get up, and John takes one of the towels to casually cover his groin. At the last moment he remembers to wave at Harry to signal to her that they’re going up to the campsite. Better to let her know where they are, before she can’t find them and assumes that they must have drowned. 

They walk along the beach to the path up the hill. The sand is hot under the soles of John’s feet, and the sun and the light wind are drying the skin on John’s shoulders and back. Sherlock walks close to him, their hands sometimes touching. John dares to brush his fingers against the palm of Sherlock’s hand for a heartbeat. It’s fucking exciting to do this, with all those people on the beach to see. He wonders how he’s supposed to make it to the tent without touching Sherlock. 

John doesn’t look at anyone who crosses their path as they walk up the hill. He wants to take Sherlock’s hand and gently pull him along, urge him to go faster, to show him how much he wants him. But even without holding hands Sherlock walks quickly, understanding exactly what John wants. Because he probably wants the same. The sound of the waves fades as they ascend the steep path, and their breathing gets louder. They’ve never hurried up here like this. 

By the time they reach the tent, they’re both slightly out of breath. The moment John goes down to crawl inside, he takes Sherlock’s hand, because honestly, fuck it. He pulls Sherlock along with him, feeling those long fingers thread into his. As soon as they’re inside, they’re kissing. It’s warm in here, the sun’s been shining down on the tent for hours now, heating up the air inside, and colouring everything in the bright blue of the polyester fabric. John barely manages to zip the door of the tent closed. 

Suddenly he doesn’t understand how he’s made it through hours and hours without kissing Sherlock. The touch of those plush lips on his own is dizzying, just like the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue and the scent of his skin. He smells like the sea, like sun cream and a hint of fresh sweat. It drives John mad, erases everything from his mind but _Sherlock_. 

After the noise of the beach, the constant laughing and shouting down there, it’s surprisingly silent inside their tent. There’s nothing to be heard but their ragged breaths, the sounds of their lips and tongues as they touch, and the rustling of the sleeping bags. The low background swoosh of the waves and the wind covers up the tell-tale sounds of their love-making. 

They tumble onto the sleeping mats, and John is the first to lose his balance, pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock is as hungry for John’s touch as John is for Sherlock’s. He kneels in front of him and bends down, cupping the back of John’s head with his hand, kissing him again. His kisses are daring, needy and untamed, and John feels as if he’s being conquered. He groans, goes down under Sherlock, and lets himself be had. 

Sherlock follows him, and John feels his body against his own, hard and heavy and warm. Sherlock starts to grind his hips against John’s, and John gasps when he feels Sherlock’s erection through both their wet swimming trunks. He starts to shove Sherlock’s pair down, but the wet fabric sticks to Sherlock’s skin. John needs both his hands to strip the wet tangle of fabric down his muscular arse and legs. 

When Sherlock’s finally naked, John grazes his fingers across the small of his back and his buttocks. His skin is cool and damp where his swimming trunks were just a moment ago. 

Sherlock sits back on his heels and, God, Sherlock’s naked body is a marvel to look at. For the first time, John notices the different tones of Sherlock’s skin. He has never quite realised how much of a tan Sherlock actually has — he’s still lighter than John and most other people at the beach. But his whole body has taken on a light shade somewhere between copper and gold, and his freckles have grown slightly darker. His swimming trunks, though, have preserved the delicate white of what his skin must look like in winter, a beautiful contrast to the dark hair above his cock. 

His cock. John swallows. Sherlock’s hard, and that, too, is something so beautiful and so hot that it pushes the air from John’s lungs. It leaves him gasping with a heart hammering wildly against his too-small chest, with an erection of his own that is desperate for the touch of a hand, for friction. 

“Up,” Sherlock whispers, because he must have read John’s mind, because he’s a fucking genius. He leans forward to John, instructing him to lift his pelvis so Sherlock can try to pull down John’s own wet swimming trunks, sticking as much to John’s skin as Sherlock’s had to his. The look in his eyes is almost too intense for John to stand. His eyes are dark silver, mercury even, and full of want. They are like a huff of hot breath brushing John’s skin, searing it, burning holes right through and piercing it. They get under John’s skin, stripping him bare although he’s almost naked already, although he wouldn’t even put up a fight. 

Take all of me, Sherlock, have me, do whatever you want with me, John pleads without saying it. 

Sherlock moves, leaning in ever so slightly, and the light meets his face at a different angle. And then John realises Sherlock’s eyes also hold the antidote to the fiery gaze that just consumed him. Sherlock looks at him with silver-blue eyes now, like the ocean at dawn, drinking him in like he’s burning from the inside as well. He looks at him as if he needs John like he needs water and at the same time, he seems to be flowing over with everything that’s happening between them. Just like John does. 

Sherlock pulls John’s trunks down. It’s incredibly arousing to finally be naked, and to be seen by Sherlock. To have him see his hard cock, to have him understand exactly how turned on John is by him, how much he wants him. 

John trails down a hand to his cock. It’s is getting too much, his arousal is buzzing under his skin like a swarm of bees. He’ll lose his mind if he isn’t touched, knowing that every touch will both take the edge off his desire and fuel it even more. 

Sherlock is still kneeling between John’s spread legs, and watches him as John takes his cock into his hand. He just watches him closely for a long moment, taking in John’s arousal with great focus. John allows Sherlock to see him like this; then gives his cock a firm stroke up his shaft and a light squeeze to the head. He loves the way it feels — both the touch of his own hand, and his hard, thick cock under his fingertips. He’s shuddering at his own touch, almost squirming. Sherlock’s chest heaves, and he’s still breathing hard. He looks at him hungrily, and then he goes down on all fours and takes John’s cock into his mouth. 

John gasps an incredulous _oh fuck,_ closes his eyes and lets his hand slip away from his erection, because there’s nothing he can do with his own hands that will feel better than the touch of Sherlock’s lips, his tongue or his fingers. Nothing. 

Sherlock runs his tongue across the head of his cock and John briefly wonders how he can be so fucking good at it when he basically just started giving head, what, _yesterday?_ He stifles a long, low moan with the back of his hand and surrenders to Sherlock completely. 

Sherlock sucks him, it’s delicious, it’s dizzying. He takes him in deep occasionally, then slips John’s cock out of his mouth again, and caresses it with his lips, with his fucking tongue. All the time, he strokes the shaft and balls, and John is incapable of putting a single coherent thought together. 

And then Sherlock shifts. John doesn’t understand it at first, Sherlock’s not letting go of his cock, but suddenly it feels different, and he’s turning around. When John opens his eyes, Sherlock’s upside down above him, and his groin is directly in front of John’s face. 

Fucking hell. John hadn’t expected this, he didn’t even know that a 69 could be a thing two men do in bed, and he curses himself for his lack of imagination, because this is — this is fucking _it_ for John, right now. 

John feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body radiating above his. He runs his hands across Sherlock’s skin, seawater still clinging to every crease and hair. He drags his fingers along the underside of Sherlock’s thighs and up to his buttocks. 

He takes a close look at all the unexplored spots of Sherlock’s body, at all these spots that have started to lure John’s thoughts and hands and lips to them. He’s gaping at Sherlock’s balls above him, at the fine light line on the skin of his perineum, and at the dark, dusky pink skin of his entrance. John’s never seen a man like this, from so close, and so — fuck, _everything._ He’s shocked to realise what this is doing to him, how much it is turning him on. 

John reminds himself to breathe, because Sherlock’s still sucking him, and draws in a shaky breath. Sherlock’s hard cock is right above him. John guides him into his mouth, trying to get used to the unfamiliar angle. But the moment he tastes Sherlock’s precome, clear and salty like the ocean, he forgets completely about his craned neck and jaw. 

Sherlock groans helplessly against John’s cock when John strokes his tongue against his frenulum. John sucks it lightly, tilting his head backwards to take him in deeper, feeling Sherlock’s rumbling sighs on his own body. 

Sherlock groans again, even deeper, and even more helplessly, when John lets Sherlock’s cock slip from his lips, licking experimentally along his balls and perineum. Sherlock’s touches grow more frantic, and he starts to suck John harder. 

Feeling Sherlock’s arousal mirrored in his touches to John’s body is maddening. It’s like pouring kerosene onto a bonfire, like setting every nerve in John’s body on fire, and it’s getting more and more difficult to coordinate. He’s teasing and licking Sherlock, sucking him off while his own need to thrust into Sherlock’s perfect, hot mouth is getting near unbearable. He starts moving his hips, struggling to push as gently as possible. He stops working Sherlock’s cock just for a breath, paralyzed by his own desire, by the sensations Sherlock is eliciting in him. 

He wonders how this can still feel any good for Sherlock, because by now, John’s too fucking gone to even think about what he’s doing. It must be the sloppiest blowjob ever. Spit runs down his chin and whatever Sherlock is doing there with his tongue on John’s cock and — fucking hell — with his hands grazing across his balls and beyond, John’s about to lose it all. 

He’s close, and Sherlock’s movements are growing more and more desperate as well. It’s a mess, what they’re doing, it’s a perfect, hot mess. There’s spit and precome, sweat and seawater, there are low moans and fucking _grunts_ , and it’s taking John right to the edge. 

For one moment, he lets go of Sherlock’s cock, incapable of doing anything except for thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth. Helplessly, he gasps for air as he feels his climax building inside him. He can’t handle anything else for those rushing and almost unbearable seconds just before his orgasm. 

He comes, panting another trembling, low _oh_ against the skin of Sherlock’s thigh and feels himself pulsing into Sherlock’s mouth. _Oh God,_ he groans, and the words resonate with pleasure and bliss as he’s being carried away by his climax. He shivers when he feels the sucking motion of Sherlock swallowing his come. 

Once the last shudders have subsided, John takes Sherlock’s cock back into his mouth. He knows that Sherlock’s close, that he’s almost there. He tries to give Sherlock exactly what he needs, and pours everything he has just felt himself into his touch. 

Sherlock pushes harder. He slips his hands under John’s arse and holds on to it, and after a few moments of breathless wonder he loses his rhythm and digs his fingers into John’s buttocks so hard it almost hurts. He gasps John’s name and the next second, John’s mouth is filled by his semen. 

Sherlock keeps moving his hips, getting slower and but enjoying it until the very last moment, until his legs give out from under him, and he comes to lie down on his side. John slowly lets go of his cock, wipes his mouth and gets up on his knees to turn to Sherlock. 

He cradles Sherlock in his arms and holds him tight in spite of the heat inside the tent. He feels the shivers running through Sherlock’s body. He listens to both their hearts beating while Sherlock’s chest heaves against his own. He feels his sweat and his softening cock, pressed against John’s thigh. Sherlock wraps his arms around him in a wordless response. 

John kisses him. Sherlock kisses back, still panting into John’s mouth. He tastes like John’s come. He tastes perfect. 

They hold each other until their breathing evens. Sherlock buries his head in the crook of John’s neck, and John pours slow kisses onto Sherlock’s beautiful, chaotic hair. Sherlock strokes John’s body, running his fingertips all the way down from his nape to his buttocks. He caresses the spot where he dug his fingers in as he came. 

It feels to John like a long time has passed when Sherlock rumbles, with his eyes still closed, “You’ve got a remarkably beautiful arse, John.” 

“Oh, thank you,” John grins, and adds, “yours isn’t bad either.” 

He’s trying to sound casual, and it doesn’t nearly get close to what he really thinks about it. 

“It — it might be actually the hottest one I’ve ever seen, to be honest,” he says quickly, wincing at his poor choice of words. He blushes. 

“Oh,” Sherlock replies, his voice full of wonder and pride. 

— 

Sherlock hands John the bottle of red wine and John takes a sip. They’re sitting in front of the fire, and Sherlock has brought his Discman. They’re listening to Sherlock’s CDs, and the others are chatting, drinking, laughing. 

They had a shower earlier, once they made it out of the tent. John had to face the tiled wall again most of the time, less to hide his arousal than to disguise the compromising grin on his face whenever he looked at Sherlock. 

Later on, Gemma and he made dinner, just pasta again, with tuna, because John knows Sherlock likes it. Sherlock went back to his tent for a few minutes and came back with two bottles of wine. 

While Gemma took care of the pasta, John chopped a handful of tomatoes. Sherlock and Harry sat down in the sand a few feet away from them, turning their backs to John and Gemma, and looked out at the sea. They talked. Not very much really, from what John could hear, but it seemed to be a good talk. It looked — easy. Relaxed. A bit like getting to know each other. 

John recognized the way Sherlock fidgeted with his pack of cigarettes, but he didn’t smoke, because Harry doesn’t like it. John stopped chopping the tomatoes and watched the two of them for a long time. He was irrationally happy to see Harry and Sherlock getting on. 

They had dinner together and afterwards they made their way up the _Dune de Pyla_. The sun was setting, it was still warm, and there was going to be a campfire. 

They were among the first ones to arrive there. Some guys John doesn’t know had set up the fire and the German girls were already sitting in the sand, a beer in front of each of them. Harry and Gemma went over to say hello, while Sherlock and John sat down a few feet away from them. 

Sherlock and he watched the sun set in the ocean through the fire. It was beautiful. There were no clouds in the clear air and the night sky felt even more vast than it did during the day. Right above them, it was a deep to drown in, gradually getting lighter towards the setting sun. John doesn’t know if there really was a slight tinge of green, just at that small strip where the sky changed from all shades of blue to the warm gold and red of sunset. Maybe there was. 

The heat of the fire makes the air flicker just above the flames, makes the stars dance. John takes another swig from the bottle of wine. He sits close to Sherlock, their legs and shoulders touching. Their hands brush when John gives the bottle back to Sherlock. 

Sherlock smiles at him, radiating happiness. Then he lifts his gaze to someone behind John. John turns and spots Eddie and James coming closer, the French girls in tow. John’s happy to see that they’re waving at Sherlock and him, and then going over to sit with Harry, Gemma and the others. 

Sherlock takes his cigarettes out. Without any question, without any teasing or hesitation, he puts one between John’s lips and leans in to light it. He brushes his hand across John’s cheek as he does it and John has to fucking focus on inhaling. The smoke tastes bitter, but it’s lost its sting. He blows it towards the fire, where the heat of the flames dissolves what is left of it and carries its remainders into the endless sky above them. 

They sit for a long time, watching more people arrive while the sun sets and night slowly starts to fall. Eventually, Harry and Gemma come and sit with them, laughing and making fun. Harry sneaks some of the wine and cocks an eyebrow at Sherlock as she tastes it. 

“You bought that, Sherlock,” she states. “It’s a hell of a lot better than the stuff we usually have.” 

Sherlock smiles a lopsided smile at her, and after she’s had a second sip, he eventually stretches out his hand and asks for the wine again. John spots Gemma shooting Sherlock a brief look that says _thank you_. 

They share the rest of the wine and two more cigarettes. They listen to the songs on Sherlock’s CD, with his tiny speakers it feels as if it’s playing right inside their heads. John hums along when The Cure start playing. He has to smile. _Friday I’m in love._ About fucking right. 

He suddenly feels his skin tickle with tension. It’s familiar by now, and it’s not really tension, either. It’s intense, it’s radiating alertness. It’s Sherlock. 

John knows without looking at Sherlock, that he’s watching him. When he does turn to meet Sherlock’s eyes, glittering silvery in the firelight, he finds the same fucking emotions pooling there that have been making him smile ever since they kissed. 

_It’s such a gorgeous sight_   
_To see you in the middle of the night_   
_You can never get enough_   
_Enough of this stuff_   
_It’s Friday I’m in love_

It’s only when he falls asleep, later, wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, that John realises it actually is Friday. And with the clarity of a large bell striking midnight, he understands that one of his precious days with Sherlock has passed. It’s been a fucking wonderful day, there’s nothing more he could have asked for, but it’s — it’s over now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ariane DeVere for transcripting the episodes of BBC Sherlock. The dialogue about the Carl Powers case is based on [her transcript](https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/46381.html#cutid1) of _The Great Game_.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opening scene of this chapter is the one the stunning and kind @zigster has based her [drawing](http://alexaprilgarden.tumblr.com/post/173550601126/noctiluca-scintillans-chapter-1-is-up-e) on!!

The sounds from outside slowly seep into John’s mind, sleep gently releasing him. He hears people talk from afar, the soft thub-thub-thub of someone walking by, wearing flip-flops in the sand. A tent being being zipped open, and there’s Harry’s familiar sleepy murmur. She yawns, and John knows it’s an open-mouthed yawn and she isn’t holding up her hand to cover it, in spite of their Mum’s attempts to grind some manners into her. But Harry didn’t much care, she never did. She must be stretching now, her left hand first, until her shirt rides up over her belly and back. 

“Going to make coffee, Gemma,” she says a moment later and starts to clatter. 

Gemma replies something, then John hears light steps from the direction of the girls’ tent and slowly fading as Gemma walks away. 

Sherlock is wrapped around John, arms across his chest, head curled against his shoulder. John lies there for a long moment, savouring the sleepy peace, and and enjoying the feeling of Sherlock’s legs draped over his. Sherlock breathes evenly, the light, steady breathing of tranquil asleep. 

The girls have breakfast once Gemma’s back, talking in low voices about what they’re going to do today. Gemma wants to head into the village nearby, Petit Nice, and take a bus to Arcachon. They plan to spend the day in town, strolling along the promenade, and going window-shopping. 

John isn’t planning to get up yet. It’s nice to have breakfast with Gemma and Harry, but today he wants Sherlock for his own. He wants to watch him blink the sleep away over coffee and to devour the sight of him when he’s like this. 

He lightly runs a hand across Sherlock’s hair, catching a curl between his fingers. Closing his eyes again and exhales, he strokes Sherlock’s naked back. He listens to Harry shuffling off to take a shower, and to Gemma rummaging in their tent to pack her bag for the day. 

Half an hour later, the girls leave, chatting loudly and bantering over Gemma wearing Harry’s too small shorts. It grows quiet outside. John slides out of Sherlock’s embrace and the sleeping bag; grabs a shirt, his cut-off jeans and a pair of boxers. He dresses, trying not to stumble over Sherlock, who’s still curled up naked in John’s sleeping bag. Balancing on one foot tangled in his shorts, bent over under the blue fabric of the small tent, he stops. 

Fuck, he’s so beautiful, John thinks as he watches Sherlock sleep. This realisation is so familiar now, and yet it never fails to surprise him. He’d never really known that men could be this beautiful. 

John swallows, still unable to understand what fate dealt with him, putting Sherlock here, into his tent, into his arms. 

He bends down to press a kiss against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock twitches and hums, the sound a faint low rumble, but he doesn’t wake up. Or maybe he _pretends_ not to wake up, in order to fish for more caresses. John kisses him again, lightly, on the spot where his earlobe meets his neck, inhaling the smell of him. Then he takes another careful step, and unzips the tent door. 

The morning air is pleasantly cool and fresh, carrying the scent of the ocean and the pines. It’s a beautiful morning, not too hot yet. The sky is a fresh blue canvas with far away clouds painted on it, airy patches of white that will dissolve into nothing as the sun gains strength and claims the sky, turning it an almost surreal shade of azure. John stretches, just like Harry, and yawns. 

John drinks from the water bottle and starts making coffee. He opens Gemma’s tent to look for the box where they store the leftover baguette and the _Bonne Maman_ raspberry jam. It’s right next to the entrance and he’s almost out of the tent again when he spots Gemma’s camera, wrapped in one of Harry’s t-shirts. He hesitates, thinking for a moment, and then takes it. 

John’s only taken a few bites from his bread when there’s a rustling inside their tent. Sherlock’s awake. A moment later he emerges, John’s sleeping bag wrapped around his waist. He crawls out just far enough to reach John’s mug of coffee, takes a sip, places the mug beside him and lies down on the sand in front of the tent. Flat on his back, he lies with his lower body and legs still inside both the sleeping bag and the tent. He looks up into the sky, squinting his eyes against the sunshine. 

John wants to preserve the beauty of Sherlock at this exact minute. He wants to hold on to the intimacy and closeness, and to the fucking ease between them. To the way that Sherlock lies casually naked in front of him, in front of their tent, covered by nothing more than a sleeping bag. He wants to carve it into the walls of his heart, burn it into his brain so that it will never fade, never be forgotten. 

“Hey,” John says, and he wishes he could say something that to actually fucking convey what he feels. 

“Hey,” Sherlock rumbles back, blinking against the bright light of the sun. 

John smiles. And then he looks at Gemma’s camera, lying next to him, on top of the plastic box. Picking it up, he stands and takes two steps closer to Sherlock. He takes a picture of him, lying there in the sand, naked save for John’s sleeping bag. 

Sherlock smiles, a bit surprised. 

“I want one of you, too,” Sherlock says, stretching out his hand to take the camera. John gives it to Sherlock, grins at him and lets him take the picture. 

For a fleeting moment John imagines sending Sherlock that picture in a few weeks’ time: sitting at the desk in his bedroom, scribbling his address on an envelope, writing a note on a scrap of paper. Something along the lines of, _Hey Sherlock. Here’s the pic you took that morning at the camp-site. Life’s boring without you, I fucking miss you and can’t wait to touch you again. See you in ten days! —J._

John’s heart hurts, a fine pinprick of pain. He hopes that Sherlock will want to see him again. Of fucking course he will, John tells himself. Why else would Sherlock want that picture? He wants something to hold on to after this trip. To run his finger across it, along its edges, until the paper gets soft and grey – only to be forgotten the moment John steps off the train and Sherlock can hold him in his arms at last. 

John is torn out of his musings when Sherlock hands the camera back to him. Once he’s put it back in Gemma’s tent, John slumps into the sand next to Sherlock. At the last moment, he stops himself from leaning in and pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s curls. John bites his lips instead, and smiles awkwardly when their eyes meet. Sherlock must fucking well know what John just wanted to do. 

The faintest pink tints Sherlock’s cheeks. John wonders why Sherlock blushes when he notices that John wants to kiss him in public — while in private they’re having the most mind-blowing sex and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate for a split second to initiate things John hasn’t even dared think about. 

Sherlock turns on his belly again and takes the mug, clearing his throat, as if trying to get rid of his blush. 

“Where are—” Sherlock asks between two sips of coffee, “the girls?” 

“They’ve taken the bus to Arcachon. They’re spending the day there,” John replies, concluding his musing with the thought that Sherlock’s a fucking marvel, a fucking madman, and _his_ perfect, marvelous madman at that. He takes his mug back from Sherlock and drinks the last of the coffee. 

“Do you want another one?” he asks Sherlock. 

“Yeah, why not,” Sherlock says with a yawn. 

John makes more coffee, and they take their time having breakfast. They never quite stop, actually. They spend the next few hours like this — in front of their tent, both lying in the sand, having a few bites of baguette with raspberry jam or chocolate spread, and reading. A few feet away, people pass by, wandering down to the beach: families with small children, elderly couples wearing brightly coloured bathing suits and swimming trunks, and every now and then, some of the young people they see at the dune. 

John doesn’t bother to get up and do the dishes; Sherlock doesn’t bother to get out of John’s sleeping bag, or get dressed. He does pop to the loo with a towel wrapped round his hips, but that doesn’t exactly count. Not that John minds. 

John gets his book out of the tent, balancing between Sherlock’s long legs and trying not to step on him. He reads for a while although the novel is indeed boring, now that he knows who the murderer is. But he enjoys finding out just how right Sherlock’s predictions about the story were. He waits to get to the point where he can see the obvious hints the author has given, where the layout of the plot becomes transparent even for him. But he never gets there. 

Amazing, John thinks, shaking his head. He looks at Sherlock, who’s lying in the sand an arm’s length away, lost to the world, bent over his book on marine biology and scribbling notes on the margin of a page. 

John’s blood starts to rush a little faster at the thought that he wants to get to know all the miracles Sherlock can do with his mind, all the tricks, all the plans, all the ideas. He wants to stand at Sherlock’s side each time he solves a riddle, and gasp in wonder. He wants to understand how Sherlock sees the world, how he sees _everything._ He’d be happy to play the fool for him, if Sherlock just lets him witness the beauty of his mind. Life seems to be so much more with Sherlock in it. 

It’s difficult to go back to reading his book now. John drops it in the sand and lies down on his back. He looks up at the sky. The sand underneath him is neither cool nor warm, neither soft nor really hard. Pine cones and broken twigs, thin and dry, sting his skin in one or two places. He watches the branches of the pines above him sway in the wind, slow and calm. Light brown boughs against a sky so blue you could drown in it, moving a few inches with the wind, a few inches back. It’s like an exhale, a relieved breath. He closes his eyes, still feeling his heart beat a tad faster, a tad more lively, as he listens to the low hum of the breeze and the occasional gentle, raspy rush of Sherlock turning a page of his book. 

The sun rises higher in the sky and the shadows of the trees grow shorter, gathering strength just as the rays of the sun do. John loses all sense of time, and there’s no reason to even attempt to keep up with the hours that pass — Sherlock’s here, naked, and apparently, there’s no place he’d rather be. Why even count the hours, John thinks as he dozes off, just let them stretch forever, let them never stop. 

“How about some ice cream?” Sherlock asks some time later, tearing John out of his dreamy haze. Sherlock’s voice is low and slightly muffled, as if he has something in his mouth. 

John hesitantly opens his eyes to look at him, not sure how much time has passed. Sherlock’s still reading, the pencil he’d been writing with earlier between his lips, playing with it like a cigarette. 

John looks around, blinking against the sunlight falling through the tree tops in bright, dappled circles. Some of the people who had walked down to the beach earlier are coming back up again with sweaty faces, skin glowing after hours of playing in the sun. Some of them pull hungry toddlers along after them. 

“Didn’t we just have breakfast?” John yawns, and stretches. He must have fallen asleep for a long time. 

“It’s been hours since breakfast,” Sherlock points out, still not looking up. “Or don’t you like ice cream? I was so sure you’d like it,” he adds in a wondering tone, as if surprised that his assumption wasn’t right, for once. 

John props himself up on his elbows, raising his eyebrows in challenge. 

“I fucking like ice cream, Sherlock.” 

Now Sherlock does look up to him. There’s something mischievous glittering in his eyes. 

“Oh. Great. Let’s get some then.” 

Sherlock is smiling in the most satisfied way, and suddenly John isn’t sure if this has anything to do with ice cream at all. 

“Are you putting on clothes—” John asks, tilting his head in a slightly incredulous way. He looks pointedly at his own sleeping bag, still wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. “For ice cream?” 

“I might,” Sherlock states, cocking an eyebrow and holding his gaze. John feels the air between them charge and licks his lips. 

“You’re a fucking tease, Sherlock,” John says with a low laugh. 

People are walking by just ten feet away, too busy with their lives to even listen. Suddenly John’s very aware that Sherlock is naked under that sleeping bag, and he wonders if Sherlock’s hard. Actually he’s desperate to know. 

“Right. I’d better get my wallet then,” John says, trying to come up with a reason, _any_ reason, to get inside their tent. He rises to his feet and takes a long step into the tent, over Sherlock’s half-covered body. He lets the fabric of the open entrance hang down as it should, hiding him so that Sherlock can’t possibly see what he’s doing. 

And what John’s doing is — waiting for him. 

He sits on the floor and looks at the tiny grains of sand he carried in here on the soles of his feet, miniature fragments of dusty rock and broken sea shells, beige and white on the blue plastic of the tent and on his purple sleeping mat. He bites his lips to cover up his smile, ignores the way his heart beats faster and that he feels just the brilliant side of nervous. He’s excited. He’s waiting. He’s waiting for Sherlock. 

It takes a full minute, but then the sleeping bag starts to rustle and Sherlock crawls into the tent. 

Sherlock stops once he’s inside, and sits down opposite John. The sleeping bag has slipped a bit lower; John can see one hipbone and the shadow of Sherlock’s dark pubic hair. He swallows, knowing that Sherlock will notice his anticipation and his arousal. 

John looks up slowly. He takes his time, because he never gets tired of observing every minor detail of Sherlock’s body — the slender curve of his waist, the shape of his navel, the pattern of moles and freckles on his skin, the colour of his nipples. He’s completing the map of Sherlock’s body he has in his mind, correcting it, adding new information. 

And John looks up slowly because he hopes that he’ll find Sherlock looking back at him. He’s nervous that Sherlock won’t, for some reason, that John’s got turned on over nothing, that he’s making a complete fool of himself. 

John gazes at Sherlock’s chest, his neck and lips, and then, finally, he dares look him the eye — and finds those grey-blue eyes looking back at him in the light of the tent. They’re glinting with expectation, and with something darker, deeper, something John can only begin to fathom. Sherlock’s mouth is slightly open, and his plush lower lip is a fucking temptation. 

John wants to stretch out a hand, wants to get closer to Sherlock and go down on him. He’s nearly bursting with the need to touch him — it’s been fucking hours, a whole night even, since he last did. But with the confidence of having Sherlock meet his eyes, of finding the same desire written there, John finds that _waiting_ here for him like this — he likes it. 

So John stays where he is. He can’t quite fight that grin, or that blush. He’d be crap at poker, since he never manages to keep whatever he’s feeling from showing on his face. But he can be cocky. He is now. 

Sherlock tilts his head, just a fraction, a mere hint, slightly squinting his eyes. His whole body is asking the unspoken question. And at the same time he’s taking that implicit challenge John has placed between them, here, in their small stuffy tent. The air is charged with it, and the tension is almost palpable. 

John stays where he is. 

Sherlock brushes a curl, wild and chaotic, from his face, and keeps looking at John. 

John licks his lips. He can hear Sherlock breathe, and the low sound adds an extra layer of charge to the atmosphere. 

Very slowly, Sherlock starts to crawl over to John, and on his way the sleeping bags slips off his hips and legs entirely. 

Sherlock is hard. Really fucking hard. 

A violent wave of heat, of desire and need, runs up John’s spine. He takes his time, watching him. Sherlock is lean and muscular. John knows how soft his skin feels on his firm flesh, how much softer his hair is, his dark curls, and the few fine hairs scattered across his chest. John swallows. The dark vee of his pubic hair, and then the fine hair in his armpits, gossamer, so beautiful. John can almost feel it under the pads of his fingers, he can almost smell it. It’s dizzying. 

But it’s the look in Sherlock’s eyes that makes John’s heart stutter for a second. There’s so much to be seen in the silvery depths of Sherlock’s eyes, so much of himself, and it’s almost too honest to bear. Sherlock doesn’t hold back. He’s taken John’s challenge, he’s playing along, yes, but he’s sincere with it. He’s fucking handing himself over to John. 

When Sherlock’s barely an arm’s length away, he sits back on his heels. John can’t tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s hard cock, from the slender form of his body. 

Here I am, Sherlock’s posture says. You want me. Now have me, John. 

John exhales, and shifts closer. They’re kneeling, sitting in front of one other on the floor of the tent. He reaches out a hand, and finally, he touches Sherlock. Running his fingertips up Sherlock’s neck, he cups the back of his head, pulling him closer, into a kiss. Sherlock sighs when their lips meet, almost immediately going pliant under John’s touch. Sherlock’s uninhibited desire is enough to make John lose his mind. 

John tousles Sherlock’s hair as he kisses him, and with his left hand he strokes Sherlock’s side. He can feel Sherlock’s ribs under his skin. He moves his hand down to Sherlock’s thigh, and up again. His fingertips dance restlessly across Sherlock’s body. He’s fidgeting, and although John loves feeling Sherlock’s skin and the goosebumps his touch is raising, it’s not what he actually wants to do. 

In silent communication, Sherlock shifts one knee on the sleeping mat, spreading his legs wider, just by a few millimetres. It’s a small gesture. An invitation, maybe even a plea. 

John’s hand stills; he sucks in a breath. He kisses Sherlock a little more roughly for a moment, taking his lower lip between his teeth, until he groans against his mouth. John kisses him again, swiping his tongue against Sherlock’s once more. 

Both their chests are rising and falling, breathing heavily. It’s silent except for the sounds they make, their quick inhales and exhales, their touching and kissing, the low cotton-y swish of John’s clothes and the rustling fabrics of the sleeping bags under Sherlock’s naked legs. 

John leans his forehead against Sherlock’s warm cheek for a moment, and then, finally, he takes Sherlock’s invitation. 

He trails his hand down Sherlock’s ribs. He trembles a little, brushing it across his hip bones. And then he takes Sherlock’s cock into his hand. 

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, low and helpless and needy. 

John can’t resist the urge to kiss him again. Sherlock groans into John’s mouth, pauses to catch his breath, only to kiss John even harder afterwards. 

Sherlock’s cock feels breathtaking in John’s hands. When John caresses the swollen head, he catches a few droplets of wetness. John collects some more of the clear liquid with his finger, and breaks their kiss. He lifts his hand to Sherlock’s mouth, red from kissing and open with ragged breaths, and slowly pushes his finger between Sherlock’s lips. The sound Sherlock makes at tasting his own precome makes John’s skin prickle with desire. He watches Sherlock lick the precome from his finger. 

When Sherlock lets John’s finger slip from his mouth, it’s glistening with his spit, and John brushes it across Sherlock’s lips, feeling the delicate skin. He kisses Sherlock’s shaky breaths away and wraps his wet fingers around his cock, determined to give him the best handjob of his whole fucking life. 

John moves his left hand up and down on Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock starts to sweat where the fingers of John’s right hand trail across his body. It’s not much, just a hint of cool moisture on the small of Sherlock’s back, between his shoulder blades, and on his neck. Sherlock doesn’t even move his body much, he’s just sitting on his heels in front of John. 

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls quickly. John can see the muscles of Sherlock’s belly tensing; he must be just one breath, just one stroke away from thrusting into John’s hand. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, leans his head back and bites his lips, stifling a moan. Fucking everybody walking by their tent could hear him, and Sherlock knows it. 

John is mesmerized. Sherlock’s so fucking beautiful, like this. 

Sherlock shivers, letting out an unsteady breath. And then he starts to move, pushing his hips up towards John’s hand. 

John shifts even closer, wrapping his right arm around Sherlock. He needs to feel Sherlock as he moves, he needs more of him, in every fucking way. There can never be enough. 

John sighs, and kisses Sherlock. It’s a rough, needy kiss, and he misses Sherlock’s upper lip. He kisses his lower lip, licking against the skin right underneath. He feels Sherlock’s stubble on his tongue and he tastes the salt of Sherlock’s sweat. He’s hooked. 

Sherlock tilts his head, kissing back and hungrily darting his tongue into John’s mouth. John’s own cock is achingly hard, and he feels his boxers dampening with precome. Sherlock puts his arms around John’s shoulders, holding on to him tightly, as if he needs John to — to keep him right, to keep him stable while he’s thrusting into John’s hand. As if he simply needs John. 

John closes his hand more firmly around Sherlock’s cock. He starts to set a quicker pace, in sync with Sherlock’s movement. Sherlock’s pubic bone is hitting the edge of John’s hand, and John feels the impact of Sherlock’s thrusts, the force and desire behind them. John’s never had sex like this. 

Sherlock groans, and thrusts harder and quicker into John’s fist for a few more moments. John knows he’s getting close, he recognizes the pattern of Sherlock’s arousal and of his orgasms. Although Sherlock seems to need it hard and fast by now, John’s still doing his best to keep running his thumb across the head of his cock and across the sensitive frenulum. John doesn’t want to hurry through this, he tries to make it feel as good as possible. 

Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s shoulders, and Sherlock holds his breath for a moment as every muscle in his body tenses. After one last sharp thrust, and another one, less fervent, but shaky and already tumbling towards the edge, Sherlock finally stills, and with a series of rumbling sighs, he comes. John feels splashes of hot liquid on his belly, soaking through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. 

John kisses Sherlock messily, he kisses his ragged gasps and shivers away, until Sherlock goes limp in his arms. 

Sherlock sinks against John’s shoulders, and for the first time, John feels Sherlock’s whole fucking weight. He’s bloody heavy, but, God, he’s a grown man, a head taller than John, and although he’s lean, bordering thin even, he’s — he’s just a lot. John laughs. He loves it. 

He’s also so fucking aroused by Sherlock, by his naked body, by the fact that he’s choosing to share orgasm after orgasm with John. 

Sherlock lifts his head from John’s shoulder and looks at him, narrowing his eyes, trying to work out what John’s laughing about. 

John huffs another helpless, happy laugh, whispering, “Don’t worry. I’m just so — it’s just you, Sherlock. I’m so fucking gone on you.” 

John’s out of breath and doesn’t even know why. He exhales, feeling tension seep from his body. When Sherlock leans in to kiss him a minute later, it’s John who goes pliant, who sinks down on the sleeping mat, handing himself over to his lover. 

Sherlock crawls on top of him, still kissing John. His hands search John’s body, his skin, all the secret and sensitive spots Sherlock has discovered over the past few days. John desperately longs to feel Sherlock’s hands on him. 

Sherlock cups the bulge in John’s shorts, running his fingers firmly along John’s hard cock. It presses against the cotton up to the fly, and Sherlock slowly pulls down the zip. John licks his lips, leaning into Sherlock’s caresses. Sherlock slips his hand into John’s boxers, and John groans at his touch. 

“Fucking hell, _yes,_ ” he gasps when Sherlock draws a teasing circle on the wet head of his cock. 

All of a sudden, a familiar voice from outside disrupts the intimate silence of their tent. 

“John? Sherlock? Are you in?” 

_Harry._

Sherlock’s hand on John’s cock stills immediately. They break their kiss, looking at each other with wide eyes. John groans, far too loud, incapable of keeping his arousal out of his voice. 

“I’ve heard that, Johnny. Anyway, we’re ba-ack!” Harry calls with a laugh, a bit louder than necessary. 

John takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. When he replies, he does his best to sound casual, and to ignore that Sherlock is naked and currently touching his hard cock. 

“Yeah, Harry, hi!” 

Sherlock’s still holding John’s gaze when his lips start to curl into a smile, and then he dissolves into soundless giggles. John doesn’t quite know what he’s laughing about; probably the shocked look on John’s face, or his overly innocent greeting. Sherlock’s cracking up, and his giggle is contagious. John can’t help but laugh too. 

Sherlock’s whole body shakes with almost silent, breathless laughter, and he buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, huffing hot, humid air against John’s skin with every exhale. John laughs with him until his stomach starts to hurt. They’re a sticky, sweaty mess, and their sex was just spectacularly interrupted. It takes them a few minutes to calm down. 

When Sherlock lifts his head and looks at John, they both start giggling again. Finally Sherlock exhales, and manages, “Ice cream?” 

“Of fucking course,” John replies with a low chuckle. “I suppose that’ll have to do instead.” 

“I owe you, John. Later,” Sherlock says and kisses him, and there’s a hint of a tease and a promise in his voice. 

— 

Before they actually have ice cream, they both agree to take a shower. They’re too sweaty, too sticky, and a cold shower sounds about perfect to John, since they can’t finish what they started. At the shower house, Sherlock can’t tear himself away from the warm spray, so once John has finished his shower he leaves to get some ice cream at the shop. 

John decides to get some for Harry and Gemma as well. After standing in front of the freezer in the shop for a few minutes, pondering over who might like which brand of ice cream best, he simply takes four Magnums _._

“Hey Harry! Look what we’ve got for you,” John says when he arrives back at their tents. 

Harry is sitting in the sand, and looks up from the white plastic bag she’s emptying. Sherlock and Gemma are nowhere to be seen. 

“What is it, Johnny? Oh, a Magnum! If there’s one with almonds, can I have it?” she says, blowing a puff of air up under her fringe. She smiles at him. The ridge of her nose is slightly red from spending hours in the sun, just like her shoulders under her black tank top. 

John spots a bracelet on her wrist he hasn’t seen before; it’s made of braided strings of light grey leather, a startling contrast to her tanned skin. There’s even a pendant on it, a small purple stone. His gaze lingers on the bracelet for a moment. It doesn’t look like something Harry would buy for herself. She never wears any jewellery. But — it suits her. It really looks good on her, John thinks. 

Harry follows his gaze and looks at the bracelet, too. 

“Gemma got it for me in Arcachon. It’s our anniversary,” she says, and bites her lip, hiding a smile. She looks up at John and he can see pride and happiness glittering in her eyes. “Two months,” she adds. She’s fucking beaming now. 

John grins back. 

“That’s great, Harry.” 

They smile at each other for a moment. 

The feeling of this holidays is being more themselves than they’ve ever been, he thinks. 

This realisation feels like a pool of warm, calm joy in his belly, sweet like honey, and gleaming golden like his sister’s hair in the sun. 

He sits down next to her and clears his throat against all his emotions, trying to sound casual when he speaks. 

“You’re back early. How was Arcachon?” 

Harry just looks at him for a heartbeat before she replies. She smiles, but there’s something deeper shimmering in her grey eyes, something more than the warmth and affection she’s radiating. It’s understanding. She knows exactly how much these holidays have allowed John and her to find out who they are, and who they want to be. 

Finally Harry takes a breath and says, her smile turning into a challenging grin, “We’re not back early, Johnny. It’s fucking four in the afternoon.” 

John furrows his brow. He’d lost track of time indeed, and he blushes thinking of how he and Sherlock have spent the day, of the sex they’ve had. 

“We’re back because we went to an amazing farmer’s market in town,” Harry carries on. “And we bought tons of tasty food for you and your skinny boyfriend. You probably haven’t eaten anything but breakfast all day,” she points out, nudging John’s side. 

The pool of honey-like joy turns into a small fire, licking at John’s insides with excitement and pride. No one’s ever called Sherlock his boyfriend. He could smack a kiss on Harry’s cheek. And Sherlock, he wants to kiss him, too, right fucking here. Sherlock, his… _boyfriend._ Although it’s only been ten minutes since he last saw him, John suddenly misses him fiercely. 

“Thank you,” he finally manages, his cheeks still red with a furious, happy blush. 

— 

The food Harry and Gemma have brought is delicious. There are different kinds of olives and dried tomatoes, there are soft baguettes with a crisp, dark-golden crust, and there’s rich, creamy goat cheese. There are grilled artichokes and eggplants, green chillies filled with feta cheese and large slices of different vegetable tartes and small sweet flans,all smelling of spices and herbs and fruit John can’t even name. There are dark purple figs, bright aromatic oranges, and soft apricots, and two bottles of wine. The girls even brought four small take away plastic cups filled with _crème brûlée._

They must have paid a fortune, John realises, comparing this to the simple meals they usually prepare on the camping stove. 

When Sherlock and Gemma come back, they have the Magnums first, because they’re already melting. They sitting in the sand between their tents with their plastic plates, the food from the farmer’s market spread out on a towel between the four of them. The pines cast soft shade over them, and the sea glistens dark blue below. 

John almost drops his Magnum in the sand as he watches Sherlock lick thick molten vanilla ice cream from his fingers. Sherlock catches his gaze and grins at John’s obvious fascination. The way Sherlock curls the corners of his mouth up and smiles his lopsided smile makes John, once again, want to kiss him until they’re both out of breath. 

Right now, everything’s so fucking easy, and so fucking perfect, and the week they’ve got together feels endless. John shoves aside the thought that seven days from now, he’ll be sitting on the train back to England. A week’s a long fucking time, he thinks, and watches Sherlock smiling and eating. 

They eat for ages, trying every dish the girls brought. They have wine in between, and this time, Sherlock raises an eyebrow approvingly after the first sip. 

Harry tells them about Arcachon and Gemma interjects, adding half-sentences of her own version of the day’s events over mouthfuls of antipasti. It’s a back and forth of telling their story, and it’s fun listening to them. It’s fun to see them together, John thinks. 

He notices that the girls touch each other more than usual, that they’re sitting closer. Sometimes Gemma lets Harry have a bite of her fig, or Harry puts her hand on Gemma’s as they talk. They drink their wine from the same plastic mug, placed next to Gemma. They laugh a lot, and actually they look a lot more at each other than at John and Sherlock. Gemma leans in to kiss Harry a few times, always making John look at a point out to the sea instead. He can’t stare at his sister while she’s being kissed by her girlfriend, but he grins, and marvels at their happiness. 

Eventually, when they have finished the _crème brûlée,_ none of them can eat much more, although there’s still plenty of food left. They’re well-fed and tired, even John and Sherlock. It’s that sweet kind of tiredness that comes with a lazy summer’s day — nothing to do and too much good food. 

Their talk slows, getting lower until it’s just hushed voices and a few single words uttered every once in a while. They lounge under the pines, watching the sun slowly descend from its afternoon height. John sits in the sand with folded legs, and at some point, Sherlock lies down next to him, lazily peeling the last orange and feeding him pieces. Sherlock’s shirt has slipped up, and John can see a stripe of his belly. 

John can’t help but think about what Harry said, earlier, when she called Sherlock _his boyfriend._ He tries the words on his tongue, the joy he’d felt earlier echoing through his heart. 

_My boyfriend. Sherlock’s my boyfriend_ , he says over and over in his mind, trying out possible variations. 

_I’m bisexual, and Sherlock is my boyfriend._

It’s new, it’s exciting, and although there’s an edge of the intimidating unknown to it, it feels right. It’s like a new version of John, one he might have to grow to become, but it feels better and better with every hour, every day he spends with Sherlock. 

He runs his fingers across that stripe of Sherlock’s skin, showing under the hem of his t-shirt. 

Eventually, Harry and Gemma get up. They don’t say much, and at first, John is still so lost in thought that he doesn’t quite notice. It’s only when he hears them zip their tent closed that he lifts his head, listening to the silence of their absence. He hears the waves, the ocean washing against the shore, he hears Sherlock’s breathing and the wind in the high pines. He hears a piece of clothing being pulled over someone’s head, and dropped on the floor of Gemma’s tent. 

John sits up, understanding dawning. 

“Let’s go for a swim, Sherlock,” he says, getting up and vanishing inside their tent to grab their towels and swimming trunks. 

When he crawls out of the tent, Sherlock casts a questioning look at him and the swimming trunks in his hand. John nods in the direction of the shower house, eager to get away from the tents and to give his sister and her girlfriend some privacy. Sherlock’s eyes lighten when he understands, and he gets up to follow John. 

They change into their trunks at the showers and take the path for the beach, their arms brushing a few times. John glances at Sherlock, and finds him smiling in the same way he is himself. John can’t remember when life has ever felt this easy. 

The shadows they cast on the eggshell sand have grown long. The rays of the sun are slowly losing their almost blinding intensity; all the colours around them shine brighter. Near the horizon, the sky is already tinged with orange. There are a few light clouds, drawn in feathery stripes far up above them, taking the golden light of the sun out into the vast blue. The breeze tastes like salt on John’s tongue. It sends countless small waves towards the shore, making the sea whisper louder into the warm air. 

There aren’t many people at the beach. Most of them must have left already, hungry for dinner, and in need of a cool shower after hours spent in the sun. John grins at the prospect of having the beach almost to themselves, and bounds lightly down a couple of stairs at once. Suddenly he can’t wait to get into the sea, to feel the water on his skin. 

John throws his bundle of clothes on the sand, and takes Sherlock’s hand, pulling him along and into the ocean. Water splashes up his legs when he takes the first quick steps into the waves, the water still warm with some of the day’s sunshine. John squeezes Sherlock’s hand and lets go, jumping into the sea, heading away from the shore towards the horizon in a long dive. 

He doesn’t need to look back to know that Sherlock’s following him. He feels Sherlock’s hand brush against his ankle a few times as they dive, and it makes him smile so hard that his mouth fills with salty water. 

When he finally comes to the surface, he hears Sherlock emerge a minute later, gasping for air. John turns, and their gazes meet. He grins at Sherlock and nods towards the _Banc d’Anguin,_ and the ocean beyond. Instead of replying, Sherlock just starts to swim with long, powerful strokes. 

All the laziness and the whole languid haze of the day slip away from John. It’s like waking up after a restful night, and every cell of his body is charged with energy. He feels the ocean’s waters float along his skin, and the low current of the waves pulling on his limbs. 

John watches the sunset begin as they swim towards it, slower and more lazy in their strokes by now. The sun hangs low above the sea. It colours the sky red, orange and pink, growing more and more intense with every passing minute. The waves reflect every tone of the sky, breaking into cool blues and greens on the water’s surface. 

Eventually, John and Sherlock just tread water, not wanting to go out any further. John loves being here, the shore far away, their breathing and the waves the only sounds they can hear. There’s no one around, there’s nothing but the sea and the wind, Sherlock and John. 

John strokes his hands through the water, much like he did that night when Sherlock showed him the sea sparkle. This feels almost as magical, watching the light flow from peachy orange into cool cerulean and deep navy blue, even if in a different way. 

His arousal is slowly pulsing through his body again, the orgasm he didn’t get to have earlier. It makes him feel more awake, hungry for life, adding a hint of impatience to everything. It lingers under his skin, and he remembers his vow to go swimming with Sherlock, naked. 

Suddenly it feels very easy to do so. 

John looks at Sherlock, at his wet face glistening in the warm sunlight. He’s swimming a few feet away, just his head above the surface of the sea. Sometimes, as Sherlock moves, one of his arms breaches the surface, and a glitter of his his bare skin shows. John wonders how Sherlock would like it, swimming naked. 

John turns back towards the shore again. He can’t spot anyone on the beach. They’re so fucking far out that no one would be able to see what they’re doing anyway. 

Seawater gushes into his mouth as he grins. He’s fucking going to do it. 

Without a word, John lets himself sink into the ocean. Turquoise water surrounds him, and deeper beneath him, it fades to a chilly deep blue. He can sense the light sand at the bottom far below, but it’s blurred by yards and yards of water. Looking further out towards the open sea, he can see nothing but bottomless blue. His heart beats faster at the sight of it, and he fights the urge to suck in a breath of surprise. But he isn’t scared anymore. 

Next to him, Sherlock’s swimming. John watches him from below, sees Sherlock’s body, moving weightlessly in the water. He watches Sherlock’s arse, his back, his arms. It’s a daze, blurred by the salty water, and yet it’s unmistakably _Sherlock._ The light, broken into bright, restless lines, is dancing on his skin. 

Looking down at his own chest and legs, standing out pale against the dark depths of the sea, John remembers what he came here for. He’s been holding his breath for a few moments, and he needs to hurry, to breathe again. 

He pushes down his swimming trunks, watching himself in the water, naked, his pubic hair, and his cock. Being naked in the ocean shouldn’t feel all that different — but fucking hell, it does. 

Swimming up to the surface with his trunks clutched in one fist, John blows out the last of his breath that he’s held in a laugh, veiling his face in white bubbles. It makes such a huge difference — knowing he’s naked, feeling cool streams of water against the sensitive skin of his cock and balls, on his buttocks. It feels free, daring — arousing. 

John breaches the surface a heartbeat later, greedily inhaling the warm, fresh air. Sherlock’s swimming just an arm’s length away from John, and he turns to look at him immediately. A questioning look flashes across Sherlock’s face, but after a fraction of second, his mouth curls in a small smile. He knows what John did. Sherlock’s smile is tinged with both desire and a thirst for adventure. 

“Okay,” Sherlock says in a low voice. He doesn’t need to speak very loud. His voice carries over the water perfectly, and these two syllables are enough to speed up the beat of John’s heart, to make his stomach flip. 

John watches Sherlock diving down into the sea as well, following the slightly distorted form of his body under the waves. Sherlock undressing looks like a tangle of limbs from up here — there’s the dark blue of his trunks mixed with the white of his skin and the dark brown swirl of his curls. A moment later Sherlock comes up again, gasping for air, and holding the swimming trunks in one large hand. 

Sherlock’s close, and he’s naked. He brushes his wet hair from his face, and spits out a mouthful of seawater. He’s so fucking close that John can feel his breath on his face, coming in quick gasps. John can see every single freckle on Sherlock’s face, and he’s mesmerized when Sherlock runs his pink tongue across his bottom lip. John feels his skin tingle with Sherlock’s gaze, feels it wandering down to his lips. 

John’s heart skips a beat, because he knows what Sherlock is going to do before he even starts to move, before he’s doing it at all. 

Sherlock leans in and kisses him. 

They’re not hidden. Sherlock kisses him out here, at sea, and they’re naked. It should be momentous or big, but it simply feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

John can taste the seawater in Sherlock’s kiss. Sherlock cups John’s head, and water runs down from his arms, along John’s ears, and back into the sea. John moans, low and deep in his throat, when he feels Sherlock’s tongue against his. 

They’re as close as they can get while treading water, just a few inches of water between them. John has the impression it’s being warmed by their bodies, only to be replaced by a fresh gush of seawater the next moment, washed between them by a gentle wave. 

Maybe it’s the effort of keeping their heads above the water, maybe it’s desire and the need for each other, the need to feel each other, that’s taking the breath from their lungs. Maybe it’s the caresses of wet fingertips on slippery skin, cooled by the water surrounding them. They need to breathe while their lips are touching, here among the waves, and they’re taking great, desperate gulps of air. They breathe each other in, tasting each other in the air. 

They’re naked in the sea, and they’re kissing. 

Eventually, Sherlock draws back and John meets his eyes. They’re dark and hazy with affection. The sight of them makes John graze his fingernails across Sherlock’s shoulder, attempting to dig his fingers into the muscle, to hold him closer. Water clings to Sherlock’s lashes, and his lips and cheeks are slightly red. Wet curls are plastered across his forehead, and he looks happier than John’s ever seen him. 

John swallows, and suddenly, a wave of emotion hits him. 

I fucking love you, Sherlock. 

He’d stop dead if he could, but he has to keep on moving, has to keep swimming. So he sucks in a breath instead, overwhelmed by the suddenness and the power of his feeling. John’s never felt this before. All words are wiped from his mind, everything that would help him understand or explain what’s happening. 

I love you, Sherlock. 

And yet again there’s a part of him that isn’t surprised at all. A wiser, older John seems to be smiling, asking, _And what exactly did you expect, John?_

He swallows again; he has to turn away from Sherlock’s gaze. He pretends to look at the setting sun, to admire its beauty, trying to calm down and process what’s going on inside him. 

After a moment, John feels Sherlock hug him from behind, wrapping his arms around John’s neck and placing his chin on his shoulder. John feels Sherlock’s weight, the warmth of his body, his chest and belly against his back. He feels Sherlock’s cock against the naked skin of his buttocks. 

Sherlock watches the sunset with John, like this. He only lifts his head to brush his lips against John’s nape in a feather-light, wet kiss. It really, really doesn’t help John to deal with the onslaught of emotion he’s feeling. 

So John simply gives up trying to explain what’s happening to him, how this is all so new, so fast, too fast. He sinks back against Sherlock’s body and threads his fingers between Sherlock’s, tenderly squeezing his hand, and kissing his long, beautiful fingers. 

They stay like this for long moments. Sherlock’s breathing is loud in John’s ears, a beautiful, intimate sound, just like the waves that gurgle as they’re carrying them. In the cool water the Sherlock’s body feels even warmer, even more alive, more real. 

But somehow John can’t watch the sun set entirely. He doesn’t want to witness it vanishing, taking the last of the daylight with it and away from them. Better if it does so unseen, he thinks. He slips out of Sherlock’s embrace and turns to him, drawing challenge and easiness across his face. 

“Swim for a bit?” 

Sherlock blinks, and then he replies, “Of course.” 

The sky is turning darker. A dramatic, wild red sends off the sun, but soon it loses its fervour, replaced by shades of purple and blue. 

They swim and dive, slower and then faster again, and end up catching one other, so far away from the shore they must be just tiny black outlines against the evening horizon. 

When John dives, he spots Sherlock’s naked buttocks in the green water, the dark patch of his pubic hair and a flash of white where his cock is. John emerges, takes a deep breath and swims as fast as he can. He chases Sherlock, who’s up at the surface as well now, swimming just out of reach. Sherlock’s snorting with laughter into the waves, trying to stay ahead. 

He can’t; John always gets him. It takes three, four long strokes before John catches his arm and holds on to him, pulling Sherlock closer, kissing him again. They kiss sloppily, both out of breath, chuckling into the kiss. 

John takes a wet strand of Sherlock’s hair between his fingers, curling it around them, and then lets go of it again. He draws a line from Sherlock’s eyebrow across his wet skin to his chin, and he knows he is incapable of keeping his emotions from showing on his face. Sherlock blushes and smiles, evading his gaze for a moment and then looking back. Every time their eyes meet, John feels it in his whole body. 

When they start to get cold, they swim the long way back to the shore. They only slip back into their swimming trunks when they can stand on sandy ground again, grinning at each other as they wade casually out of the waves. It’s dusk by now, and they spot the campfire, already lit, up at the dune. 

— 

The four of them are later than usual to the campfire. On their way up there, they drink what’s left of the wine from Arcachon. Their voices and laughter echo across the dune, all of them tipsy and cheerful. It was a happy day. Sherlock is relaxed, even making a few wonderfully odd jokes. Gemma, Harry and John snicker into the night. 

The sky is a vast ultramarine blanket above them, fraying towards the day’s azure in the west, tinted with inky black in the east. Glittering stars are scattered across it. Now that the sun has set, the sand’s warm ochre shade fades as quickly as the heat of the day. 

Gemma and Sherlock talk together, already half a step ahead of Harry and John. Harry puts her arm around John’s waist, and the two of them walk up the slope of the dune, their feet sinking into the sand up to the ankle. John pulls Harry closer for a moment, feeling her side press against his. He can’t remember the last time he felt so close to her. Calm contentment spreads in his chest. 

Gemma hands Sherlock the bottle of wine, and Sherlock takes a swig. He hands it to John after he’s finished. John lets go of Harry, squeezing her hand and smiling at her before he takes the bottle. He puts it to his mouth, feeling Sherlock’s gaze rest on him. He stops and drinks from the almost empty bottle, lifting it up high to catch the last drops. Immediately, some of the wine runs down his chin. 

“Ah, shit,” he laughs, about to wipe it off with the back of his hand. But Sherlock’s quicker, running his index finger across John’s chin and lips. It doesn’t take very long; maybe the girls don’t even notice. But John holds his breath as Sherlock touches him. When Sherlock licks the wine from his finger, John can’t look Sherlock in the eyes at all. 

They arrive at the campfire and find a place to sit down, waving to Arnel. Eddie and James join them a while later, bringing some more wine, speaking French to the girls clinging to their arms. 

Gemma runs her fingers up and down Harry’s bracelet, still talking to Sherlock. John puts his hand on Sherlock’s lower back and trails it across the vertebra, right on that strip of skin between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his cropped jeans. Nobody can see that he’s touching him, but he feels the light press of Sherlock leaning into the touch. From the corner of his eye, John sees Sherlock smile, while he listens to him and Gemma talking. 

They have some more wine, and it feels to John as if he’s drinking in the night in its whole beauty, brimming with life and freedom. He’s already more than a bit drunk when he lifts his eyes and looks up at the night sky, his head spinning at the movement. As his eyes gradually get used to the darkness, he spots more and more stars above them, until finally he’s sure he can make out the broad stripe of the Milky Way. It’s huge. It’s so beautiful it takes his breath away. He grins, vowing to himself that he will show Sherlock eventually. 

When his neck starts to hurt, John looks back down at their group, gathered next to the fire. Eddie is whispering something into his girl’s ear, with an arm draped around her shoulders. John doesn’t understand the words Eddie’s saying, but he gets their meaning: flirting, unspoken negotiation and persuasion. Eddie places a fleeting, daring kiss on his girl’s cheek, but she giggles and blushes and turns away. Eddie just smiles, and doesn’t withdraw his arm. 

James and the French girl next to him are talking, sitting close but not overly so. It’s the girl who shifts towards him, pretending to listen to what he’s saying, while her body language asks for more, for touches and caresses from his large hands. 

John looks at James and wants to grin encouragingly at him, but instead he finds James shooting him and Sherlock a look charged with something that John doesn’t know how to interpret. With James, it seems to be the wrong context, the wrong person. John knows what it is, he knows what it is on other people, he’s seen it in Sherlock’s eyes so often now, it — it looks like _longing._

But John can’t quite tell, he doesn’t know James well enough to say for sure. It’s just a fraction of a second before the look is wiped off James’s face and a jovial smile shows up instead. And anyway, it’s dark, and John is drunk, just like James probably. Maybe John got it wrong. He could ask Sherlock, though; he turns to talk to him. 

John tries to make his inebriated mind hold onto the question he wants to ask Sherlock about James, but then he watches Sherlock for a moment. Sherlock’s listening to Harry and Gemma joking. He’s laughing, low, only to himself. He looks so easy, so happy, that John completely forgets about James. 

Sherlock turns and meets John’s eyes and John sees his breath hitch. There’s a slight tremor in Sherlock’s movement as he takes John in, and he stills, just looking at John for a few heartbeats. His face, open and unguarded, shows the same amount of emotion John has been wrestling with ever since they went swimming. Time seems to stand still. When Sherlock finally moves again, he takes his cigarettes out. He flips the pack open and offers it to John. 

John bites his lips for a moment. His head is spinning with the alcohol, but he manages to take out a cigarette, and puts it between Sherlock’s lips. John takes the lighter that’s stuffed into the pack, and leans in to light the cigarette. He smiles to himself at their reversed roles. Sherlock hollows his cheeks as he pulls, and it reminds John so fiercely of the blowjob Sherlock gave him that he has to look the other way. 

He can hardly look back at Sherlock. 

Suddenly all his arousal is back, prickling under his skin, and everything feels charged — the brush of their fingers when Sherlock hands him the cigarette, and the fact that Sherlock’s lips touched the filter just a few seconds ago. The way Sherlock’s eyes glint in the low light of the dancing flames, and the memory of every single cigarette they’ve shared. John isn’t able, isn’t willing to even try to keep his need for Sherlock at bay. 

They kiss as soon as they’re out of sight, just a few moments later, far enough from the fire to be hidden by the night. Their drunk kisses taste like red wine and the cigarette they smoked. Their hands dance restlessly over one other’s bodies, already pushing up t-shirts, grazing warm skin beneath. They could almost go down on each other right here. They stumble away from the dune, back towards the campsite. 

They hurry, and John is drunk enough to talk some nonsense to Sherlock. He tries to make Sherlock laugh like he did earlier, because John is fucking addicted to the sound, to knowing that Sherlock’s well, and happy. 

It’s also an attempt to keep himself from pushing Sherlock down into the sand or into the sea, from kissing him until he’s moaning beneath him. From making him come in his fist or his mouth, right here on the beach. 

The way Sherlock laughs at his drunken jokes tells him that Sherlock, too, thinks they’re nonsense; that he enjoys hearing them, nonetheless. 

Somehow they make it back to their tent. The first moment after they zip it closed feels like a vacuum — they just look at one other in the darkness, breathless and sweaty from rushing up the path. A bit drunk, and wanting each other desperately. 

Sherlock’s hair is black in the dusky light, and suddenly John needs to smell it, he needs to bury his fucking nose in it and inhale as much of Sherlock as possible. He stretches out a hand towards him, and Sherlock takes it, pulling him closer into a desperate embrace, into a frantic kiss. John takes a deep breath, groaning at Sherlock’s scent. 

The next moment Sherlock’s pushing John down on their mess of towels and mats and sleeping bags, and he’s at John’s buttons and zips immediately. He pulls down John’s shorts and boxers, not bothering to undress John any further. Somehow that’s even more arousing than being naked. 

Sherlock runs his long fingers across John’s hard cock and he fucking _groans_ as he touches it. John bites his lips to stay silent; any sound he’d make now would be fucking embarrassing. He shouldn’t be this far gone, this needy, when Sherlock’s barely touched him. He’s so close to wrapping his own hand around his cock and getting himself off, nearly combusting with need. 

Sherlock casts him a look with eyes that are silver in the darkness, and glittering with something John can’t grasp. The next moment he’s dipping down between John’s spread legs and John feels Sherlock’s mouth on his cock. 

He sucks John hard and quickly. John can hear every stroke of his tongue, every time Sherlock swallows what must be both precome and saliva, every time he closes and opens his mouth around John’s cock. John hears Sherlock’s breaths, ragged with arousal. 

Sherlock wraps a hand around John’s shaft, moving up and down in sync with the incredible things he’s doing with his mouth. It brings John to the edge of orgasm at lightning speed. He must be breathing too fast, too much, because his hands start to tingle numbly. 

All attention, all sensation, seems rerouted to his groin. Every cell in his body feels alight. He vaguely notices that he’s tangled one hand in Sherlock’s hair, pulling him closer. 

Sherlock follows his lead, taking John deeper. It feels so good John fears he might sob with pleasure. 

“Fucking hell,” John pants desperately, because there’s really nothing else he could say. “Fuck, _fuck,_ Sherlock,” he tries to warn Sherlock, “I’m going to—” 

His voice fails him. Everything fails him. 

He tries not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, _fuck, Jesus, his mouth,_ but he isn’t sure he succeeds. His hips push up, chasing sensation, chasing pleasure. 

It doesn’t need much. It doesn’t need anything, really. From one moment to the next, he’s lifted up, tumbling weightlessly, perfectly into orgasm. He’s fucking coming, Christ, this is _it_ — 

And then Sherlock slips his mouth off John’s cock just after the first shot. 

_Oh no,_ is all John thinks, his eyes wide open again, staring at Sherlock. _Oh God no._

John can’t help it, he can’t control it, he’s coming all over Sherlock’s lips and cheeks. 

This isn’t a gentle wave anymore, this loss of control is as overwhelming as a tsunami. It washes the ground from under him. He surrenders, he gives up fighting; lets himself be carried away. It’s a shocking, perfect state of bliss, watching white, thick splatters of his come cover Sherlock’s skin. 

Breathing raggedly through the post-orgasmic haze, John looks at Sherlock. Fucking shattered, he lets his head sink back onto the sleeping mat, still watching Sherlock. 

John tries to compose a sentence in his mind. He wants to ask him _why_. Did Sherlock do that for him, John wonders, or was it something he’d wanted to do? To try? 

But he stops when he sees Sherlock lick his lips, tasting John’s come with his tongue. John pushes himself up, sitting up although he feels fucking boneless. He leans in to kiss Sherlock, kissing and licking his own come from his face. He briefly winces at the taste, because, fuck, it’s much more intense like this, on the tip of his tongue. And then he kisses it all away. 

John loves him. He’s wiped empty again: gone is the drunkenness, gone is the rushed enthusiasm of having sex. The only thing that remains is John’s all-encompassing love for Sherlock. 

Later, when they’ve both caught their breath, he gently makes love to Sherlock; and all the time, John can’t stop thinking that Sherlock let John mark him. That he let John fucking _claim_ him. 

John makes Sherlock come, crying out in wonder. He tries to live up to that claim he’s been granted, to the fucking gift of a human being who wants to be with him like _that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm continuing to work on this fic I have updated the chapter count and there'll be about 26 chapters now, maybe 28. In case you're all wondering what's going to happen in nine more chapters, please keep in mind that at the beginning of the first chapter it says, _Part One, France_. :)  
>   
>  I'm insanely grateful for the amazing comments I get here. You have no idea how much this means to me, how much your thoughtful feedback supports me. I can't thank you enough.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of period-typical homophobia. Blood and graphic depictions of a superficial head wound (no serious injury, and it's neither John nor Sherlock).

“John!” 

Harry’s voice pulls John to the surface of consciousness. He opens his eyes, and immediately squeezes them shut again. The morning light inside his tent is soaked with sunshine, it’s far too bright after hours of sleep. 

Harry sounds alarmed, and so John quickly props himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. He briefly glances at Sherlock, turned on his side, and still asleep. He’s facing John, but his face is half-hidden by his hair, and his mouth looks soft and relaxed. The naked skin of his upper body gleams warmly in the morning light. And he’s drooling a little. John smiles sleepy-eyed, then thinks of last night, of how Sherlock’s lips had his come all over them. He’s suddenly sweating, fighting a wave of arousal. 

“John! John, are you awake?” Harry calls again, and from her ragged breathing and her hurrying steps coming closer on the sand, she must be running towards them. 

John sits up, the sleeping bag slipping down his own naked body. 

“Yeah,” he replies, sounding throaty with sleep. “What is it, Harry?” 

And then John can hear her fumbling with the zip of his tent. He hastily pulls up the sleeping bag, enough to cover his groin. 

“Eddie’s had an accident! Come and have a look at it, please?” Harry pleads as she opens the tent. 

Without asking for permission, she peeks inside. She looks worried, but after taking in the sight of her naked brother and a sleeping Sherlock, her eyes flicker with a smile for a split second. 

“Accident? What’s happened?” John asks, hastily grabbing his shorts. In a different situation he’d feel self-conscious as hell about Harry seeing him and Sherlock like this, but there’s no time for that now. It doesn’t fucking matter — there’s been an accident, and he needs to get dressed and try to help. 

“It just happened a few minutes ago, in front of the shower houses. He was run over by a boy on a bike, and he fell on the street. He hit his head pretty fucking badly,” Harry says, slipping out of the tent again. 

“Is he conscious?” John asks, quickly disentangling his legs from Sherlock’s and the sleeping bag, pulling on his shorts. Before he leaves the tent, he takes his first aid kit from his backpack, already going through the steps in his mind. 

“I think so,” Harry calls. She’s already on her way back to the shower houses, running barefoot up the street. 

John hurries after her. Adrenaline rushes through him, and he’s wide awake now, alarmed and focused at the same time. 

He always wanted to be a doctor, even as a kid. This spring, he’d been on first aid course when he started driving lessons. Leaving the stuffy training room with a handful of other participants on a late Saturday afternoon in March, he’d been happy — fucking exhausted after almost nine hours of learning the basics of first aid, but it’d just left him hungry for more. 

He’d started working on a plan to make it real. Reading up on everything medical he could, he started gathering information about med school and how to apply for it. He talked about it with Harry in the evenings, when she came to his room and sat on his bed. She listened to him; made him believe in himself and his plan a little more. 

At the shower house, John finds Eddie sitting on the ground, pressing a towel to his forehead. His face, hands and t-shirt are covered in blood, and his knee is bleeding, too. Eddie’s bag of toiletries lies in the dust of the path, half open a bottle of shampoo next to it oozing thick, creamy white liquid onto the dirty asphalt. Harry stands next to Eddie, sheltering him from the curious looks of people passing by. 

John kneels down in front of him, putting a hand on his lower arm. Eddie’s eyes lighten when he sees him. 

“Hey Eddie, I know a bit of first aid. Can I have a look at your head?” John asks calmly, slipping on a pair of rubber gloves. 

“Hey,” Eddie replies faintly, and when he carefully takes the towel away, his hand is trembling. There’s a big gash on his forehead, right below the hairline. Blood is spilling from the wound. It’s bleeding so much that John can’t see how long the cut is exactly, but it must be an inch at least. He checks Eddie’s head for other injuries, but he can’t find any. Blood has run into Eddie’s eyes, down his face and neck, drenching his shirt. He looks fucking alarming. 

“Press the towel on the wound again, Eddie. It should help stopping the bleeding,” John says after he has a look at the towel Eddie is holding. The parts that aren’t already smeared with blood seem to be clean and dry; Eddie must have been on his way to take a shower. 

“Yeah,” Eddie replies, and lifts the towel to his forehead again. “There was this kid, I — I didn’t see him coming on his bloody bike. He ran right into me,” he says. His voice sounds shaky, although he seems to be doing his best not to let it show. “I fell down and hit my head on that stone.” He nods towards a large stone in the grass next to the street. 

“Okay. How are you feeling? Do you have a headache? Are you nauseous?” John asks. 

“Headache, yeah. But not nauseous.” 

“How about your vision? Look at me, Eddie. Do you see double?” 

Eddie lifts his gaze to look at John. Half his face is hidden by the towel, and the other half is covered in blood. His usual coolness is blown away, and John can see that he’s frightened. 

“It’s — it’s okay. Looks normal,” Eddie says, and takes a deep breath. 

John’s surprised to realise that he’s perfectly calm now, and that Eddie is accepting his help without question. Pride and a new kind of confidence swells in his chest. He thinks about what to do next. 

“Eddie, everything’s going to be fine. You need to go to hospital and see a doctor. The gash on your head might need stitches. You’ill also be checked for a concussion, but since you’re not throwing up or feeling sick, I think it might just be a light one.” 

Apart from getting help, all John can do is keep Eddie still, calm and conscious. And that’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

“Harry, go and ask Arnel if he can take Eddie to hospital or call an ambulance,” John says, turning to Harry. She nods, and the next moment, she’s running up to the shop. Eddie’s eyes go wide for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Okay, let’s have a look at your knee,” John says, trying a smile. 

Eddie nods, and John briefly checks his knee, but luckily it’s nothing more than a big scratch. 

“It’s okay, it just needs a proper clean and a big plaster. Don’t worry.” 

He’s getting some disinfectant and gauze out of the first aid kit when Eddie says, “This — the thing on my head started bleeding really quickly and—” Eddie pauses, inhaling shakily. “I — I’m not very good with blood, you know.” 

The whole front of Eddie’s t-shirt is soaked with it, and John’s gloves are sticky red by now. 

“Hey, Eddie. It’s okay. Take a deep breath and look at me,” John says firmly. When Eddie meets his gaze, inhaling deeply and looking slightly panicky, John adds, “We’ll get you to hospital. Head wounds tend to bleed heavily and it usually looks much worse than it actually is. You’ll be fine. Okay?” 

Eddie forces himself to smile and nods. John keeps talking to Eddie in a low voice, trying to pass the time until Harry comes back. He has another look at the gash, and now he can see that it’s a deep one indeed, and even more than an inch long, but the bleeding is finally slowing down. John soaks a few tissues in disinfectant and wipes some of the blood off Eddie’s face. 

Then he goes back to cleaning the wound on Eddie’s knee, making sure no small stones or dust are left in it. It’s a bit too big for the plasters from his kit, so he puts a gauze bandage on it instead. 

He’s just finished when Harry comes back. 

“Arnel’s on his way—” she starts, when a white Renault Clio comes down the street, quite a bit faster than cars usually go on the campsite. The car stops next to John, and Arnel leans out of the driver’s window. 

“Eh, _Jean,_ I’ll take Eddie to hospital in Arcachon. I know the way,” Arnel says over the noise of the running engine. 

“Fine, thanks,” John replies, and turns to Eddie. “Can you get up, Eddie? Arnel’s taking you to hospital now.” 

Eddie nods and takes John’s outstretched hand. He leans on it more than John would like. John helps him get into the car; he’s just hesitating next to Eddie’s open door, wondering whether he should accompany them to the hospital, when James runs up. 

“Hey, John,” James says, out of breath. “What’s happened? Gemma just told me.” 

“Eddie was run over by a bike and fell on his head. Arnel’s taking him to hospital now. He’s got a gash on his forehead, about an inch and a half wide. The bleeding’s slowing down, but he’ll probably need stitches. And they should check him for concussion. He might feel sick, and they might keep him in hospital for the night,” John explains quickly. 

“Yeah, right, okay,” James says, bending down to Eddie and checking him with furrowed brows. Then he turns and looks up at John. “Thanks. See you later, right?” he adds. 

Arnel gets out of the car and folds down his seat so James can get in the back. Then he gets back in himself, closing the door with a loud _bang_ , driving away at top speed. 

John’s left in the middle of the street, suddenly alone. He watches the red tail lights of the car vanishing behind some trees. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his arm, careful not to touch his face with the gloves. 

He looks at his hands, at the rubber gloves with Eddie’s blood smeared all over them. He’s fucking done it, he realises. He helped Eddie when no one else could, and both Harry and Eddie trusted him to be capable of doing it. He grins to himself. Is this what being a doctor feels like? 

John takes in his hands for another moment, and then peels the gloves off and puts them in the bin at the side of the street. The adrenaline’s starting to wear off, his frantic energy fading. He sighs deeply, tiredness washing through his body in an unexpected wave. His stomach rumbles with hunger. Suddenly he remembers that he only got up ten minutes ago, and that he’s wearing nothing but his shorts, not even boxers underneath. 

The people who had gathered to gawp at the scene are leaving now, hurrying off to whatever they originally meant to do. No one wants to be caught staring, John thinks grumpily. Harry’s nowhere to be seen, either. 

He turns to go back to their tent, and that’s when he spots the person standing alone on the other side of the road. 

It’s Sherlock, and he’s waiting for John. 

He must have stood behind the gawkers, tall enough to see everything from further away. His hair is still a bedhead mess. He’s wearing John’s t-shirt and his swimming trunks, dressed in a hurry. 

John smiles. He’s glad to see him. 

“Hey, good morning,” John says, as soon as he’s close enough. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock replies, his voice still that half-octave deeper that it is when he wakes. 

They stand there, hesitating for a moment. John would love to touch him, but he doesn’t know how, here on the street, right now. 

Then Sherlock turns, nodding in the direction of their tent. “Breakfast?” 

“Starving,” John grins. “Just—” he says, as looking at his hands again. “Just let me disinfect my hands, okay?” 

A few minutes later, they prepare coffee and something to eat in silence. There’s a strange comfort in doing these everyday things that don’t require John’s full concentration, that he can do from mere muscle memory. Pictures of Eddie come up in John’s mind as he eats, and he goes over the whole situation again. It wasn’t dangerous; nothing bad could have happened. And yet, it still takes him a while to calm his thoughts. 

When John has finished eating his baguette, Sherlock pours them some more coffee and asks, “Bench?” 

John nods, and suddenly he wonders if Sherlock had eaten at all. He didn’t notice. 

“That was good. What you did,” Sherlock says when they’re settled on the bench, looking out at the sea, sipping their coffee in silence. Sherlock’s sitting close, as he always does. The warm points of contact between their bodies — their upper arms resting against each other, Sherlock’s knee touching John’s — ground John more than anything else ever could. 

It’s a beautiful day. The ocean stretches out to the faraway horizon, the air already whirring with the promise of heat. John watches the people down at the beach: small figures lying on colourful towels; intact, unharmed bodies, and tanned, unbroken skin, glistening in the sun with seawater and sun cream. 

And yet, without John noticing, something uneasy has crept into his heart. His chest feels cold and tight, the space around his heart squeezed small until every beat seems to hammer against it. He doesn’t understand where this has come from. Just a few minutes ago he was brimming with pride and the satisfying feeling of having accomplished something. But maybe — maybe it’s just the stress fading. He’s heard of that. 

“Thanks. It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” John says eventually. He places his mug on the sun-bleached wood of the bench and stretches out his hands on his lap, trying to focus on something different. Suddenly they look naked without the rubber gloves, and yet so much more familiar. 

“Head wounds often bleed a lot,” Sherlock states. When John glances up at him, he can see that Sherlock had followed his gaze and is looking at John’s hands as well. John isn’t sure what it is that’s showing on Sherlock’s face. It might be appreciation, or pride, but it’s hidden by calm impassiveness, as if Sherlock hasn’t yet quite decided how to judge the scene he witnessed earlier. 

“A fuck of a lot,” John says. 

Sherlock turns his head and looks at John for a long moment. It’s the same look John saw in his eyes when he first told Sherlock that he wants to be a doctor, a week and a half ago. But then the moment passes, and Sherlock shifts to take the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asks. 

John smiles. It’s strange to smoke so early in the day, but the way the nicotine promises to take the edge off his emotions is tempting. He takes a cigarette and puts it between his lips. Sherlock leans in to light it, and John aches at the realisation that he wants to be this close to him, always. 

The smell of burned tobacco fills the air as John drags on the cigarette. He exhales, watching fine blue-grey threads of smoke rise from its glowing end, lighter than a cobweb, and vanishing in the air above them. 

“You handled the situation very well,” Sherlock says, just loud enough for John to hear over the swoosh of the rolling waves. He takes the cigarette from John’s fingers. “You’ll be a good doctor.” 

Just like that first night at the campfire, the few words Sherlock says about a medical career are the most reassuring ones John has ever heard. It’s like an anchor to cling to, a certainty to hold on to, to firmly believe in. It feels fucking good, knowing that there’s someone who believes in him. Who believes that he can do this. 

For the first time, John really thinks about what it would be like if he didn’t have to battle his way through life on his own. 

He’s never given this much thought. He’s always pictured himself in some sort of relationship, somehow, but he never understood what life with a significant other might be like. He never much cared, in spite of girlfriends and crushes. He always thought of himself only, as himself being the one — the only one — responsible for the way his life turns out. Now he gets an inkling that things could be different with someone in his life he… well, with someone he trusts. With someone he _loves._ John swallows. With someone as outstanding as Sherlock. 

John casts him a sideways glance. Sherlock’s smoking. John knows the exact moment when Sherlock is going to take the cigarette from his lips and hand it back to him. He knows it before Sherlock’s body even starts to move. He knows how long Sherlock pulls on a cigarette, with his lips closing around the filter, leaving that little space that allows him to inhale fresh air at the same time. John’s so familiar with the way Sherlock smokes. What if he could get familiar with Sherlock in other ways, too? In _all_ the ways? He’s got to know him in so many ways already. 

This new idea is a big one, and it’s overwhelming. It feels like something worth fighting for, just like so many of the things he’s experiencing these days. 

John sucks in a breath, chest almost painfully tight, thinking back to what Sherlock has just said — that he’s sure John will be a good doctor. 

_Will I, though?_ John wonders, raking a hand through his hair. 

“I’m not sure. I completely freaked out when you — the night you took E,” John admits, and takes the cigarette Sherlock holds out for him. He drags, and exhales. Finally he adds in a low voice, “I fucking panicked.” 

John pulls again, not quite daring to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Instead of mentally revisiting that night, he simply listens to the sizzling of the glow, and watches flakes of cigarette ash dance down to the ground. They rest on the sand, touching it as lightly as only near-weightless things can. The fact that the smoke doesn’t taste bitter in his mouth anymore is almost shocking. 

“I’m sorry for that, John,” Sherlock mumbles. There’s an unknown kind of regret in his voice. After a moment, John feels Sherlock’s gaze on his skin as he drags on the cigarette once more. When he gives it back to Sherlock, his hand is warm where it touches John’s. 

“It’s okay,” John replies. He takes a breath, and it’s meant to be a deep inhale, but it ends up shallow, stuck in his constricted chest. He hopes that his voice doesn’t sound as insecure to Sherlock as it does to his own ears when he adds, “I guess there’s a reason why doctors aren’t supposed to treat people who’re very close to them. Family.” 

John coughs, playing for time. His heart beats loudly, because suddenly he wants to say it, he wants to say these exact words out loud, and hear them, in the context of him and Sherlock. 

“Partners. The like.” 

John still evades Sherlock’s gaze, biting his lips. 

He hears Sherlock dragging on the cigarette once again, slowly, even more slowly than usual. John’s bracing himself for the answer he might get from Sherlock. 

The answer never comes. Sherlock’s knee rests a little heavier against John’s. When John finally looks at him, there’s a boundless curiosity glinting in Sherlock’s eyes, and all Sherlock says is, “Tell me about being a doctor, John.” 

And with that, the weird cold feeling of tightness and constriction that had settled in John’s heart is gently blown away, carried off on the light ocean breeze that brushes across their skin, that tousles its way into their hair. The clammy unease is lifted, and it vanishes into the air like the smoke of their cigarette. 

John exhales, and all of a sudden, a wave of thoughts crests in his mind. He remembers Harry calling Sherlock his boyfriend. Fuck, yes, he wants him to be his boyfriend. Now, as long as they’re here. But maybe even more than that when they’re back home. He wants it to be him and Sherlock, together. 

John has always thought that a same-sex relationship would inevitably be difficult, no matter whether you’re bi or gay or whatever. He thinks of the looks and deprecating stares gays get, all the talk behind their backs. All the rumours and fears about HIV and how every gay must be contagious. All the insults about being a pouf and taking it up the arse. The way some people react when gays are close to each other in public, their tight-lipped disapproval, the way some people firmly pull their kids away from the scene. How some people don’t consider gay men to be real men. The way some people think it’s okay to give someone a bloody nose in a rainy back alley after a few pints at the pub, or maybe a kick to the head once he’s down on the ground, just because he’s homosexual. The way gay men sometimes hide to protect themselves from the anger of the mob, or from the disappointment of their own families. John always thought that being a man who has a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend would be, most of all, fucking difficult. 

John swallows hard. Not everybody’s like that, not everybody’s a fucking homophobe. And yet, being gay still takes a fuck of a lot of courage, it’s more than fucking ‘difficult’, John thinks grimly, clenching his jaw. 

If Sherlock really was his boyfriend, back home in England, maybe things wouldn’t be like that. Or not always. He feels his body relax a little, tension ebbing from the muscles in his face, in his hands, in his shoulders. Maybe there are also things that would be easier — like everything that is just about the two of them. John feels fucking invincible when he’s with Sherlock. He feels like the kind of person he wants to be. 

It might be easier because John knows that Sherlock believes in him. And because he loves Sherlock. And it really seems like — with a madly beating heart John thinks of the way Sherlock looks at him, how he is close to him, of the lengths he’s gone to just to _be_ close to him — like he, John, means a fucking lot to Sherlock, too. 

God, could it be as simple as that? 

He exhales, pausing for a moment. The anger and worries tightening his heart start to fade. They make room for this whole new concept of life. 

This idea is fucking absurd, John thinks, this idea of him and Sherlock being together once they’re back home. He’s only known Sherlock for a couple of days. And yet it feels fucking right. It’s exactly what he wants. _Sherlock._

He takes a deep breath, feeling the salty, sea-scented air streaming into his chest, like life returning to his body. He breathes again, and again, closing his eyes. He opens them after a few moments, adjusting every thought he’s ever had about his adult life to the new possibilities that are opening up right now. 

Once John feels calmer, he looks at Sherlock, who’s grinding the cigarette on a stone next to the bench. Sherlock radiates patient alertness, listening to whatever John is going to say. Sherlock wanted to know what being a doctor means for John. 

John clenches and unclenches his hands, trying to sort through his thoughts after this wave of emotions. 

So what _does_ being a doctor mean to him then? 

“Being a doctor—” John starts, holding his breath in the middle of the sentence, “being a doctor would be — it would be _it._ ” 

He mentally goes over the things he’s read in the few medical journals available in Winchester’s public library, over everything he’s learned so far. He thinks of how he pictures this profession, and finally comes up with, “You know, the human body is fucking fascinating. How does this whole thing work? What happens if it doesn’t? How do you find out what it is that isn’t working? And what can be done about it?” 

He laughs just thinking about all of this. 

“I don’t know much about surgery techniques or the whole mind-blowing shit people are working on at the universities, but, Christ, it’s amazing. They’ve started to decipher the whole humane genome! There are — I don’t know — 22,300 genes. Fucking unbelievable.” 

John pauses just long enough to take a breath. Sherlock’s smiling at him, and he’s soaking in every word John says. Happiness and enthusiasm spread through John’s body. 

“Being a doctor is the most challenging thing I can imagine,” he goes on. “I guess med school would probably kill me, but — but I’d do fucking anything to go there. I can’t think of anything I’d work so hard for.” 

John thinks of his first aid course. It’s nothing in comparison to med school, but that day he noticed how most of the participants had zoned out at some point, staring at a crack in the wall or out of the window. But he, he’d listened to every word, he’d taken notes and everything. He’d wanted to understand. And today he’s grateful for the things he’d learned. 

“When I was helping Eddie — I mean, I didn’t really do anything. It was fucking obvious that he needed a doctor. But — it felt good. Knowing what I had to do, what I had to look out for.” 

“It wouldn’t have been obvious to everyone, John,” Sherlock interrupts. He sounds very calm. “Others might have panicked at the sight of that amount of blood. You assessed the situation correctly and took the necessary steps. You were perfectly calm under stress, and even managed to calm Eddie down. You provided James with all the data he will need in hospital. It was remarkable.” 

John turns to look at him, and when he meets Sherlock’s eyes, his piercing, clear gaze sends a shiver down John’s spine. It’s fucking high praise, that. 

“Yeah,” is all John can say. “Yeah, I — I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” 

It takes a moment until he can finally go on. 

“It’s what — what I want to be. A doctor. I want to be someone who matters. And I think I might be able to be that person. Some day.” 

Saying this out loud makes it feel bigger. John’s never put it like this, not even when he was talking to Harry. Maybe it’s because he’s sure that Sherlock understands him. Suddenly the air is too heavy with how much going to med school means to him, with how much it’ll crush him if he can’t. 

“Besides, I can name every bone in the human body, and I’ve got to put that to some use, haven’t I?” John says in an attempt to crack a joke. 

Sherlock looks at him, furrowing his brow, and then his mouth — his madly beautiful mouth — turns up into a smile. 

“No, you can’t,” Sherlock replies, chuckling. “There are 206 bones in the adult human body—” 

“I fucking well can,” John counters with a grin, challenging him. 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow and rumbles, “I’ll put that to the test.” 

John licks his lips and looks at the sea, still grinning. Things are feeling easier again. 

Their mugs are long empty, puddles of coffee dried into light brown stains on the plastic. The pauses in their conversation lengthen. It’s hot, and John’s grateful for the shade the big pine is casting on the bench. Suddenly he’s thirsty. He gets up and fetches a bottle of water from their tent. 

“And you, Sherlock? Apart from studying chemistry, what do you want to do with your life?” John asks once he’s back. He has a few greedy gulps of lukewarm water. 

Sherlock wordlessly holds out his hand, and John hands the bottle over. Sherlock drinks and John watches his neck, his larynx moving every time he swallows. So fucking beautiful, John thinks, and once more he wonders if he’ll ever stop being paralysed by the grace of Sherlock’s small everyday movements. 

Sherlock puts the bottle down and fidgets with the cap for a moment, then he squints his eyes, as if searching for something on the horizon. 

“How did you put it? ‘I want to be someone who matters.’ That sounds — reasonable.” Sherlock pauses. He looks like he is trying to put something that he’s never told anyone before into words. “I’m — I’m not sure yet. Chemistry is only… a tool. Just like my mind.” 

Sherlock pauses again, and now it’s John’s turn to listen. He finds that he’s desperate to hear everything Sherlock is going to say. 

“I want to be in London,” Sherlock finally carries on. There’s a determination in his voice that John rarely has heard. “There’s no other place like London. I want to see all its secret alleys, its dark corners, and unravel all its mysteries. It’s the only place where I can _live_.” 

Sherlock goes on, and the more he talks about London the more enthralled he sounds. John’s captivated by him. While he can’t quite picture Sherlock among Leicester Square’s buzzing masses under the bright neon signs, or taking photographs with Tower Bridge in the background, he can see him in Soho’s forgotten backalleys, or in the secret tunnels of the underground he’d read about as a boy. He can see Sherlock getting lost in London’s labyrinth of brick, concrete and glass, only to emerge again in a place where no one suspects him to be. He can see him in all the places no one else cares about, and that only few people know exist. John’s never thought of London this way, but instantly he feels drawn to it. He can see Sherlock working with all sorts of people, the lost ones and the winners, the unseen faces and those that are plastered all over the newspapers’ front pages. He can’t help but think about the dead boy whose death Sherlock couldn’t solve. 

But it’s fucking London. Everything costs a bloody fortune there. 

“You can’t afford London unless you earn a lot of money,” John says, remembering what a friend of Harry’s had said, who grew up in London and moved to Hampshire as a teenager. “It’s always crap if you don’t have any money, but it’s particularly crap in London.” 

“I don’t care,” Sherlock replies with an air of mild disinterest. 

“Well, you’ll have to care once you have to pay fucking rent.” 

“I’ll find a way,” Sherlock says, and John laughs. He loves Sherlock for this. 

For the duration of their talk John’s almost succeeded in pushing aside the fact that he has no idea if and how he’s going to make it to med school, or how he’ll manage to become a doctor. When he thinks about this again, it hurts. It’s the same pain he’s felt earlier after he helped Eddie, he realises. But now he knows where it comes from — today, he got an inkling what being a doctor might feel like. And he’s afraid that what his mum might turn out to be true: that he hasn’t got the means to become one. 

He sighs, and he craves another cigarette, but he doesn’t say a word about it. 

John can’t picture himself as a nurse. He’ll have to get used to picturing himself as an army doctor. He clenches his jaw. 

He doesn’t know what to think of the army, now even less than before he met Sherlock. It’s a great option to study medicine if he can’t afford med school. There are no fees for normal med school, but — _but._ He’d still need to pay for a room, he’d need to pay for books, he’d need to pay the cost of living, for a five years or more. It’s far more than his mum can afford — she’s told him so quite a few times. 

He could try to apply for a scholarship, there are programmes like that. But he doubts that he’ll be good enough. He’s a good pupil, but he’s by no means an outstanding one. He isn’t a bloody genius like Sherlock. His thoughts return to the army again, as they always do, at this point. 

The army. Well, fuck. Apart from the chance of becoming a doctor it also holds a strange fascination for him. Maybe Sherlock’s right, maybe he craves a bit of danger. He’s not sure if that’s going to be enough to be an army doctor, though. 

He knows that if he joins the army to study medicine, he’ll want to put the things he learns to use. In exchange for the chance to go to med school, he’d have to sign up for a couple of years of service afterwards, and work in some military hospital in the UK, or in a field hospital on foreign assignment. He’ll want to help where doctors are needed most. It’s the right fucking thing to do. And apart from that, he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything, most of all not his medical degree. 

But going abroad for several months or even years has lost its appeal. It’s lost its promise of danger and the meaning it has held for John, now that — now that something absolutely unprecedented has turned up in his life. Now that Sherlock’s there. He almost chokes realising how much this is changing things. 

John’s uncertainty is growing. He tries to picture himself as a soldier who has a boyfriend and huffs a bitter, helpless laugh. Being queer in the UK today might be difficult, but being queer in the army must be like running a fucking gauntlet. He clenches his jaw. He wants more freedom once he finishes school, not less. He wants to be able to see Sherlock whenever he can, and not to be forced to hide him. 

John stares at the sand in front of the bench, eggshell white grains, a few dry, small broken pine twigs and tiny pebbles. After a moment of losing himself in this sight, he straightens, every fibre of his body brimming with determination. He wants to be a doctor. And he wants to be with Sherlock. These are the two things he wants more than anything. 

John forces another breath into his lungs, and out again. He focuses on the points where Sherlock’s body touches his. Sherlock’s warmth seeps into his skin, and with it that feeling of a new, unknown world opening up. 

_I’ll find a way,_ Sherlock said. 

— 

It must be way past noon already when John hears steps coming closer. He’s lying on his belly in front of their tent, still just wearing his shorts. He enjoys feeling the rays of the sun — making their way through the tops of the pines — on his naked skin. He’s gazing at the sea, wondering if he should get up and fetch his crime novel, or if he should drag Sherlock down to the beach where Harry and Gemma are, and make him swim with him for a while. Sherlock’s sitting next to him, scribbling what looks like the periodic table of elements on a notepad. John huffs a laugh. 

Chemistry, he thinks, shaking his head, during the fucking _holidays_. 

John stops immediately when he remembers that he’d read anything on medicine as well now, holidays or no holidays. 

The steps are coming closer. 

“Ah, _Jean,_ Sherlock!” 

John turns to look. It’s Arnel, walking down the path to their tent. 

“Hey. How’s Eddie?” John asks, already getting up. 

“He is fine,” Arnel replies. “They’ll keep him in hospital in Arcachon for the night, just like you said. They are checking for a—” he stops, searching for the right word, _“pour une commotion cérébrale? Tu vois ce que je veux dire?”_

Sherlock looks up. 

“A concussion,” Sherlock translates when he sees the questioning look on John’s face. 

“Ah. Alright. And the gash?” John asks. 

“He got five stitches. James is still at hospital with him, and he asked me to bring a few clothes for Eddie.” 

Sherlock gets up, mumbling, “I’ll get them.” 

While Sherlock shuffles off to James’s and Eddie’s tent, John prepares a coffee and sits down in the sand with Arnel. 

“Eddie told me to thank you for your help this morning,” Arnel says while John puts the espresso maker on the camping stove. 

“It was nothing. I guess anybody would’ve tried to help,” John says. 

“Maybe, but not everybody would have known what he’s doing, eh?” Arnel replies with a smile. 

John has to smile as well. He feels respected by Arnel, and it’s making him proud. 

It takes Sherlock a couple of minutes to collect some of Eddie’s clothes, enough time for John and Arnel to have a mug a coffee. They talk about the hospital, and about the fact that John suspected Eddie might have to stay for twenty-four hours. Arnel explains everything the doctors said and smiles at John in between, and it has nothing to do with Eddie, or his injuries. John has the impression that this smile carries the weight of a few years of experience, of memories of the days when Arnel was John’s age, queer and trying to find his place in life. 

Eventually Sherlock returns, a bag full of Eddie’s clothes in his hand. Arnel nods, drowns the rest of his coffee and takes the bag from Sherlock. 

“Thank you. And take care, you two, okay?” he says, handing John the plastic mug and heads back to his car. 

John watches him drive away. He feels calm, and in spite of all the unanswered questions about his future, he dares to be a little optimistic. 

“Come on, John,” he hears Sherlock say. “You wanted to make me go for a swim with you.” 

“How did you know?” 

“Emotions—” Sherlock says, making a vague gesture with his hands, “showing on your face etc. You know what I mean.” He’s grinning at John, standing in front of him, wearing only his dark blue swimming trunks and his sun glasses. 

He’s it, John thinks, and he isn’t sure whether he ever wanted to kiss Sherlock as badly as he does now. 

— 

James comes back from hospital in the evening. John is just leaving the shower house when he meets him, John’s hair is still wet, his skin scrubbed after swimming with Sherlock. The girls suggested to have dinner at the restaurant, and they’ll meet there in a quarter of an hour or so. 

John asks James if he wants to join them, and so they all have dinner, together, James, Sherlock, and John, Arnel, Harry and Gemma. James tells them that Eddie is indeed quite well, that he’s infinitely appalled by the idea of having to stay in hospital while all of his friends are back here having fun. John notices Sherlock raising an eyebrow at the word _friends,_ but Sherlock doesn’t say anything. It seems to make him think. 

Eventually they’re finished with their pizzas and leave, wandering slowly down the street that leads to their tents, and to the path to the beach. The sun hasn’t set yet, it’s casting a warm, orange light on the world. 

John smiles at the sunset and the sea. His worries seem far away right now. 

Sherlock is walking next to him, the others a few steps ahead. 

“Cigarette?” Sherlock asks, taking the pack of Gauloises from his pocket. 

“Sure,” John replies. Now it’s the intimacy of smoking that he longs for, of sticking their heads together when Sherlock lights the cigarette. He suddenly misses the secret touches when they hand it to each other, and the hidden joy of putting his own lips in the exact same spot where Sherlock’s have just been. He needs to kiss Sherlock, John realises. 

They halt while Sherlock lights it for John, only starting to walk slowly on again as they smoke. The others haven’t noticed and kept walking, so they’re some ten yards further down the street by now. 

John and Sherlock fall behind even further as they talk. 

“How can you smoke when you want to be a doctor, John?” Sherlock asks, and his voice has taken on a gravelly, teasing tone. John pulls on the cigarette, and suddenly he isn’t sure if he still wants to follow the others to the dune. 

“You said it yourself. Danger. Seems I’m attracted to it,” John says, tilting his head, and teasing him right back. 

Sherlock reaches out his hand to take the cigarette, shooting him a mischievous look, and a big grin. John bites his lips, smiling with pride; he watches Sherlock as he drags on the cigarette and slowly exhales the smoke. 

They walk down the street, not even trying to go faster and catch up with the others. They smoke, handing the cigarette back and forth, touching just as John had hoped for. They look at each other as they walk, half-hidden sideways glances and stolen peeks. 

When Sherlock leans his head back to blow smoke up in the air, John’s hands tingle with the need to touch him. They’re approaching their tent, and they get slower, until they almost stop. The air is charged with every look they’ve shot each other, each one lasting a little longer than the last, gradually growing heavier with implications. 

The cigarette is halfway down, and they take their time to finish it. John’s just putting it to his lips to drag again, when they hear Harry’s voice from the path down to the beach, calling them from a distance. 

“John! Sherlock! Are you two coming?” 

Without thinking, John takes a few long strides forwards toward the slope of the hill until he can see the beach. He stands on the tip of his toes, shading his eyes with his right hand from the sun, red and fiery on the horizon, looking for Harry. She and the others are down at the beach, but Harry’s looking back, up towards the camping site. She doesn’t spot John though, she’s looking too far in the direction of the dune, scanning the hill for him and Sherlock. 

John’s still thinking about what to say to Harry when he feels Sherlock’s lips on his neck, and then suddenly his teeth, lightly grazing the skin. He almost drops the cigarette into the sand. 

Fuck, she must be able to see us! John thinks, and quickly calls, “Later! Er, maybe, that is!” 

John takes a step backwards, and the beach drifts out of sight. He bumps into Sherlock and suddenly feels the whole of his lean, tall body pressed against his own. John wants to sink back until he leans against Sherlock, he wants to feel Sherlock wrap his arms around him from behind and hold him tight. He wants to feel him grind his hips against the small of John’s back. He wants to feel every fucking inch of Sherlock, now, while they’re standing here. He’s growing more and more fed up with hiding. 

Further away, John hears a few people laughing, just some other campers probably. Maybe they wouldn’t even care. But still he turns and takes a step back, although he can’t stop himself from licking his lips. 

Sherlock meets his eyes, and he doesn’t give John a chance to feel idiotic about his insecurity, because he cocks an eyebrow that tells John, _Look. This is what I think._

And then Sherlock takes off his t-shirt. John gapes for a moment. A wave of heat runs through his body at the sight of Sherlock’s naked chest, slender and beautiful, and so close that he can almost smell him. John wants to run his hands across his pectorals, he wants to feel Sherlock’s nipples harden under the touch of his fingers. He wants to feel him close again. 

Sherlock carelessly drapes his shirt across one shoulder and looks at the lazy waves on the beach, as if it’s just a warm evening, and as if he isn’t teasing John at all. All the time he’s grinning and yet trying to hide it, he must be completely aware of what this is doing to John. 

John grins, because _fucking hell_ it’s perfectly normal for blokes to take off their fucking shirts all the fucking time on this camping site. They’re just a minute away from the beach, aren’t they? John shakes his head and looks at the cigarette he’s still holding. Then he lifts his hand, turning the palm to Sherlock’s face, so Sherlock can pull on the cigarette. 

Sherlock steps closer, so close that his naked chest is touching John’s forearm. He’s always so fucking close, John thinks. He needs Sherlock closer still. 

Sherlock’s looking at him while he drags, and John’s heart beats a tad faster. He smiles at John once he’s finished, and John grinds the cigarette into the sand. 

“Come,” John growls. He turns and puts three fingers on Sherlock’s forearm, exerting just enough pressure to take Sherlock with him. Sherlock follows him back to their tent, and they crawl inside, John first, Sherlock on his heels. 

It’s still light inside, and the air is stuffy and warm after hours of sunshine. John lies down on his side, still pulling Sherlock along with him. 

“What you said about the Human Genome Project earlier,” Sherlock starts, sitting next to him. John looks at him in surprise, because how can he talk about fucking medicine _now?_

“What?” 

“The Human Genome Project. Deciphering the entire human euchromatic genome, founded in 1990 in the US—” Sherlock sets out to explain with a hint of exasperation. 

“I know what the Human Genome Project is, Sherlock,” John says with a laugh, still not understanding what this is about. 

“I just wanted to say that strictly speaking it isn’t only medicine. It’s genetics. Biotechnology,” Sherlock states. 

“Yeah, I fucking know! But think of all the advantages it might have for medical research—” John points out, and he’s not nearly finished when Sherlock leans in and kisses him. 

John is surprised by the ferocity of Sherlock’s kiss. He groans against Sherlock’s lips. 

“Hey. What was that?” John asks and smiles when Sherlock breaks their kiss a few moments later. 

“I think I like it when you talk about medicine,” Sherlock says, out of breath. 

“Okay,” John replies, and he feels his cheeks blush. “I can do more of that.” 

“Please do.” Sherlock looks at him expectantly, and then he grins. 

John leans in to kiss him again. Sherlock tastes perfect, in spite of the cigarette, it’s all perfect, the way he feels, the way his fucking mouth feels. 

John pulls back. He’s hard already, and he yearns to feel Sherlock’s naked skin on his own. He takes off his shirt first, and then his shorts and boxers, feeling Sherlock’s gaze on his body all the time. 

John combs his fingers through his short hair, and exhales. He leans towards Sherlock and opens the fly of his jeans, noticing the outline of his hard cock under the fabric. It never fails to make his breath hitch, the obvious evidence of Sherlock’s arousal. He pulls Sherlock’s cut-off jeans and his boxers down, and runs his fingers through his dark pubic hair and along the underside of his erection. 

John pauses. He wants Sherlock, but he’s more patient tonight. He doesn’t want to rush through this, but to enjoy every fucking second. 

“I think you asked me to prove that I know all the bones in your body,” John says, biting his lower lip and cocking his head. When he looks back at Sherlock, he finds his eyes glistening with amusement and want. 

“That’s a truly perfect idea,” Sherlock rumbles, already propping himself up on one elbow, cupping the back of John’s head and kissing him. He licks across John’s lips and into his mouth, and in return, John catches Sherlock’s lower lip with his teeth, making Sherlock groan. 

“Oh come on, _doctor,_ nowshow me what you know,” Sherlock breathes. 

John’s heart skips a beat. There’ll come the day when he’ll make me lose my mind with that voice, John thinks, and groans. He leans in to draw a line across one of Sherlock’s cheekbones with his fingers, and then he slips his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck, letting it wander down the vertebrae. 

Their gazes meet, and it’s both playful and charged, light with teasing joy and heavy with desire at the same time. John waits for Sherlock to take the first step, smirking. 

“ _Clavicula_ ,” Sherlock finally prompts. 

“That’s an easy one,” John replies with a low laugh and runs the fingers of his left hand across Sherlock’s right clavicle, a hard ridge under warm, soft skin. It makes Sherlock smile. 

A heartbeat later, Sherlock squints his eyes. He’s clearly thinking, and clearly making a show of it. 

“ _Lunate_ ,” he says after a moment, smirking. 

“Know that one as well.” John smiles, taking Sherlock’s right hand and pressing a kiss to the spot right above his wrist. 

“ _Mandible,_ ” Sherlock tries next. 

“Now you just want me to kiss you,” John says in a low voice. He props himself up on his elbow and brushes a kiss to Sherlock’s jaw, and another one, an inch closer to his mouth. Sherlock turns his head, and John’s lips meet his. They kiss deeply for a few moments, and when John draws back, they’re both breathing harder than they were before. 

“I don’t need much of an invitation, you know? I’ll kiss all the bones in your body, while naming them,” John adds. He strokes his fingers across Sherlock’s chest, drawing lines across his ribs, brushing his nipples, stroking the few dark hairs around them. 

“ _Sternum, costa verae,_ ” Sherlock rumbles, and lifts his head to catch John’s lips, drawing him into another kiss. 

“Show-off,” John whispers against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock grins into the kiss. John can taste the happiness. 

“ _Pubis_?” 

John pulls back and looks Sherlock in the eyes while he slowly trails his hand down from Sherlock’s chest, along the soft concave of his belly, past his belly button until he touches his pubic hair. It’s dark, with a shimmer of ginger in the right light, a beautiful contrast to the pale skin of his hips. John lets his hand rest there, just an inch away from Sherlock’s cock, teasing him. 

“There you go,” John says, sounding slightly gravelly even to his own ears. 

Sherlock groans. 

“ _Ilium._ ” 

John strokes his fingers across Sherlock’s hipbone, grazing it lightly and raising goosebumps on his skin. Sherlock shivers, obviously enjoying the touch. 

“ _Sacrum,_ ” Sherlock whispers. 

“Turn around,” John says in a low voice. 

Sherlock turns on his side and faces John, allowing John to place his hand in the small of his back. John draws circles there with his fingertips. He loves that spot, and he really loves Sherlock’s arse — the firm, strong _gluteus maximus,_ the way it feels when he touches it, its ridiculously plush shape. He can’t help but stare at it when Sherlock’s dressed, and he can’t keep his fingers off it when he isn’t. He kisses Sherlock, letting his hand slip down to his buttocks and kneading them. 

John feels Sherlock holding his breath. He’s already wondering what Sherlock’s going to come up with next, when he hears him say in a low voice, not meeting his eyes, “ _Coccyx._ ” 

John briefly raises his eyebrows and then trails his fingertips further down Sherlock’s spine. He lets them vanish between Sherlock’s buttocks, and slowly runs them down his cleft until they finally rest on the small, hard knob of his tailbone. 

John’s heart is beating quickly. This is intimate, this is fucking intimate, he thinks. 

“Stay there,” Sherlock sighs after a moment. He sounds shy and — John is surprised to realise this — aroused. 

Now it’s John who is holding his breath. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and John can’t tell why, if he’s focusing on the sensation, or if he just needs a moment to himself, unseen by John. Sherlock’s mouth is open, he’s breathing slowly, but his lips are tense. John leans in and brushes his lips across Sherlock’s cheek, just to let him know he’s here, and that things are okay. That this is okay. 

“Touch me,” Sherlock pleads in a whisper, huffing warm breath against the skin of John’s cheek. 

John licks his lips, and then he moves his fingers down Sherlock’s cleft, abandoning his tailbone. His heart is beating more fiercely the further his fingers go. He feels where the bone ends underneath the hot skin, and where it is, from here on, all muscle and firm flesh. He hesitates for a moment, because Sherlock tenses the tiniest bit. But when Sherlock doesn’t say anything to stop him, John takes a breath and goes on, until he finally feels the furled knob of Sherlock’s anus under the pad of his index finger. 

Sherlock exhales shakily, a voiceless whimper. John keeps still for a moment, praying that he’s done the right thing. Sherlock sighs, and it sounds as if he likes what John is doing. 

John cautiously strokes that spot again, ready to draw back at any time, and a shiver ripples through Sherlock’s body. Sherlock groans, deep down in his throat, so low John can barely hear it. He feels Sherlock relax in his arms although the air between them remains charged with daring, with exploration. 

God, this is hot, John thinks. It’s turning him on as well, much more than he’d have anticipated. He strokes Sherlock’s anus more slowly now, but more determinedly. Sherlock leans into his touch, pressing lightly against John’s finger, letting him know that he wants this. John groans. He looks down his own body, at his hard cock. 

John’s waiting to be put off by touching Sherlock like this, or to feel weird about it. It’s his — it’s Sherlock’s arse, after all. But he isn’t put off. He’s just curious, and he’s bloody aroused by it. It’s fucking unexpected, it’s daring, and it makes adrenaline pulse through his system. They’re discovering something new together, something so hot he can’t quite believe it. He playfully rubs the tight ring of muscle, getting used to the way it feels to do this. Sherlock’s cock is pressing against John’s hipbone, smearing precome on his skin. 

John draws back his finger and puts it to his mouth, covering it with as much saliva as he can gather. When he touches Sherlock again with his spit-slick fingertip, Sherlock groans a surprised and helpless _fuck._

John knows how sensitive this tissue is, that it doesn’t need much pressure to feel good. Sherlock’s breathing hard, sweating a bit. It’s fucking hot, feeling him like this. It’s so fucking intimate, secret even — this is a spot of Sherlock’s body no one gets to see. Even when Sherlock’s naked in the shower house, no one will ever see the spot John’s touching right now, that he saw yesterday, when he sucked him off turned upside-down. 

The saliva on John’s finger is gone quickly, spread on Sherlock’s skin and evaporating. His finger is dry again, rubbing Sherlock rather than caressing him. John’s about to spit on his finger again when Sherlock breathes, “Lube. Where’s the lube?” 

The need in his voice goes straight to John’s cock. 

“Hold on,” John says, and he’s out of breath himself. He sits up and reaches for his bag of toiletries. Sherlock turns on his back again, casting him a look full of longing and anticipation, full of the arousal held in his body like he holds breath in his lungs. 

John opens the bag and shoves aside toothpaste and deodorant, shower gel and his electric razor until he finds the small bottle of lube. He squeezes a generous splash onto his fingers. He briefly wonders what he’s going to do now, if he’s just supposed to go on like he did before, or — or if this might go quite a bit further than he’d have thought possible, at this point. 

John lies down on his side next to Sherlock, and kisses him. Sherlock’s on his back, with slightly bent legs, and he tentatively spreads them a little wider, giving John access to his body. John can’t help but notice how fucking hard Sherlock is. He swallows, and decides to find out how far Sherlock wants to take this. 

He slides his fingers down the delicate skin of Sherlock’s perineum and beyond. The lube is warmed by his fingers and it feels bloody breathtaking, even to John — it makes Sherlock’s skin slick, intensifying every touch and every stroke of his fingers. He feels every tender wrinkle of the furled skin, and he’s almost sure that Sherlock’s anus isn’t as tense anymore. 

God, fuck, he’s relaxing, John thinks, and a wave of heat washes through his body, heavy with the possibilities that are opening up right now, and with _lust_. He’s so fucking turned on by this. 

John keeps running his finger across Sherlock’s entrance, circling it. Sherlock sighs, desperate and needy, arching into his touch. 

When John’s finger finally breaches Sherlock’s body, John doesn’t consciously decide to do it — it just happens. Sherlock presses his whole lower body against his hand, presses his arse against the tip of John’s finger. John pushes, gently, just to try, and it slips easily inside Sherlock’s slick anus. 

It’s hot and wet with lube, and it’s fucking tight. John’s going to wank over this for bloody years. 

Sherlock keeps still, panting now. He’s biting his lip in concentration, and John feels drunk on the sight of him. Sherlock’s curls fall messily into his face, and his eyes are closed. His lips are red, either from biting them or from kissing John, and his cheeks are flushed with arousal. John sees the pulse in his carotid artery flutter, and his chest heave. John leans in to kiss him, passionately; he needs to let Sherlock know what this is doing to him. 

Sherlock kisses back with a moan, channelling his own arousal back to John. It’s fucking heaven. 

John feels his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, and his finger in Sherlock’s arse. He’s dizzy with lust, he fucking has to stop thinking about this or he’ll come much sooner than intended, and untouched. 

Slowly the tension slips away from Sherlock’s body, and the tightness around John’s finger gradually eases up. 

“Move, John. Move your fucking finger,” Sherlock growls after a few deep breaths, eliciting a violent wave of goosebumps on John’s skin. 

John tentatively goes deeper with his finger, past the first knuckle, and then he pulls back a bit, starting a slow back-and-forth-movement. Sherlock pants a little harder. 

John holds his breath while he pushes in further, just far enough that his second knuckle is surrounded by the wet heat of Sherlock’s body. John wonders what it looks like, his finger breaching him like that. He exhales with a low whimper, watching Sherlock. 

Sherlock looks as if he’s concentrating, focusing on what he feels, as if it takes all of his brilliant mind to grasp the sensation, or to get used to it. John moves his finger in and out, stroking the sensitive tissue. Probably he’s stretching it without intending to, he’s trying his best not to make it uncomfortable for Sherlock. 

Sherlock wants to say something, but his voice has gone hoarse. He clears his throat, and whispers, “Two fingers.” 

John furrows his brow in surprise, biting his lips. He didn’t expect this, but he complies. Slowly pulling out, he feels Sherlock hitch as he draws his finger past the sphincter. He takes the lube, and coats his index finger and middle finger. He looks at them while he does it, involuntarily comparing their combined girth to that of his own cock. 

Not quite there, he thinks, and blushes hard at his thought. God, is he considering — fucking Sherlock? Up the arse? 

John swallows. He fucking well is. And he’s so turned on he has to give two, three hard strokes to his own cock, just to take the edge off some of the tension. 

John’s heard about anal penetration, but so far, it has never been on the table. But then, so far he’s been with girls. The idea of sliding his cock into Sherlock’s tight anus, the very idea of it is driving him mad, and he doesn’t even know where this has suddenly come from. He starts to sweat. 

Fucking stay calm, Watson, John tells himself. It’s a fucking long way to go from two fingers to a hard cock, and who knows if Sherlock would even want it. 

He looks at Sherlock, and leans down, kissing him again. When he draws back, Sherlock’s eyes fly open. He takes John in, and a small, content smile plays around his parted lips. 

“Is this good?” John asks, without specifying what he means exactly. Maybe he doesn’t need to. 

“T’Is,” Sherlock replies breathlessly, still smiling. 

John smiles back, and runs his fingers down Sherlock’s cock, past his balls until he finds his entrance. Sherlock groans when John touches it. He draws slow circles around the rim with two fingers, trying to figure out how to push them in without hurting Sherlock. He presses against it, experimentally, and slips in surprisingly easily. 

John can feel how he’s stretching the muscle, and this shouldn’t be so damn hot. Sherlock inhales sharply, his body tense with concentration; adjusting. But it only takes a few moments, then Sherlock breathes more deeply, and John feels him relax. 

John starts moving his hand again, slowly at first, giving Sherlock the time to get used to it. Sherlock rakes a hand into his curls, panting a little harder, and the way his gasps slowly turn more vocal makes John’s pulse race and his cock bob with desire. 

“Faster,” Sherlock breathes, “just a bit faster.” 

John goes faster and it starts to feel like fucking him with his fingers, this, what they’re doing. It’s delicious. 

John suddenly remembers something he’d read about anal sex, about how to make it feel really good. He slows down a little, and crooks his fingers, feeling inside Sherlock. He isn’t quite sure because it’s really fucking difficult to tell, but _this,_ this soft, round-ish thing, maybe that’s— 

“Oh my fucking God,” Sherlock gasps, clasping a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a moan. 

Everything changes, the pace of their movements, the pattern of Sherlock’s breathing. He keeps gasping, breathing so hard that John hopes he won’t start hyperventilating. John moves his hand carefully at first, making sure not to put too much pressure on the sensitive spot of Sherlock’s prostate. When Sherlock is nothing but fucking melting under his touch, he dares to go slightly faster. 

They get into a flow — the pushing, teasing motion of John’s hand, the way Sherlock rolls his hips, meeting John’s fingers inside him, and his little, erratic shudders when John brushes against his prostate. The air is filled with their panting and groaning, with the heady smell of arousal and fresh sweat. 

John swallows as he watches Sherlock stroke his own nipples for a moment; he doubts Sherlock’s even doing it intentionally. He looks so uninhibited, so completely unaware of everything happening outside his own body. Sherlock slides his hand down, takes his cock into his hand and starts — now John has to close his eyes momentarily, because, God, this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen — starts wanking. Sherlock moves his hand up and down his cock, not quite meeting the movements of John’s fingers in his arse, as if he’s already too needy, too desperate, too far gone. 

John watches Sherlock’s long fingers on his cock, spreading the precome on the head and shaft, stroking himself. He’s a fucking beauty, John thinks, a fucking beauty in everything he does. 

Sherlock opens his eyes, just wide enough to catch John’s gaze. There’s a look there that John has never seen, not on Sherlock and not on anyone else. There’s desire, and there’s devotion, there’s total openness. 

It hits a nerve at the core of John’s being, being looked at like this, being allowed to see Sherlock like this, and knowing he’s the only person who has ever seen it. 

John is falling for him so hard that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever recover. 

Sherlock blinks slowly, and breathes just one word, his voice breaking as he says it. “Harder.” 

John takes a deep, desperate breath and starts moving his hand a bit faster, more forcefully. His palm is slick with lube and sweat, and it makes low smacking noises when it hits Sherlock’s perineum and arse. It even _sounds_ like fucking. 

John watches Sherlock lose it all. He watches Sherlock pushing his fist up and down his cock, biting his lips, desperately trying to keep silent. He feels how Sherlock rolls his hips to meet John’s fingers fucking him. He watches him lying there, legs spread wide, squirming under John’s touch and his own, skin shimmering with a faint sheen of sweat. 

John knows he’s almost there when Sherlock’s thighs begin to tremble, when his balls grow firmer and draw up to his body. Sherlock takes his left hand into his mouth, biting his fingers as he gets himself off. 

John moves faster inside him. He’s worried he might hurt him, but Sherlock’s greedy for it; he pushes himself against John’s hand until he finally stills, with a hoarse, stifled groan, coming all over his hand and belly. John feels him spasm around his fingers. 

Sherlock strokes his cock until he stops trembling, until the last wave of bliss has ceased making him shiver. 

John carefully pulls his fingers out, and Sherlock hisses slightly. John kisses his lower lip, Sherlock still catching his breath. He feels Sherlock’s mouth twist into a smile. 

John wipes his hand on one of the towels, then quickly pours some more lube on it. He takes his cock and starts stroking himself, he can’t hold back for one more moment. He’s leaking, and he looks at Sherlock as he pumps his fist down his cock, at this fucking marvel of a man lying in his arms. 

Sherlock lifts his gaze, making John’s breath hitch. The openness he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes earlier is still lingering there, as if a door had been pushed open that, from now on, can’t fully close again. 

“Next time, John,” Sherlock says, still out of breath and sounding absolutely wrecked, “next time I want you to fuck me.” 

John has never, in his entire life, come so hard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the amazing @echosilverwolf for patiently explaining to me the basics of how to deal with an injury like this with basic first aid. (Also thanks to Mr aprilgarden for listening to my questions in this context, you brave man.)  
>   
> \---  
>   
> Small correction in chapter 1: In preparation for writing their trip back to England, I checked how you would have travelled from Arcachon to London in 1994 - without the EuroStar, without RyanAir. It turns out that you can't do this trip in the eight hours I've mentioned in chapter 1, it's rather 16 to 17 hours. So I made them take the night train on the way to the camp-site (just like I did, back in the day).
> 
> Also, I've added a few tags, and there will be more additions as this fic progresses.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for description of alcohol abuse and a dysfunctional family. Also there's paragraph where John thinks of his first time with a girl. Does this need a TW?

_Next time, John, next time I want you to fuck me._

John gets hard just thinking about it. He groans, his voice throaty, breaking from sleep. Lying on his side, Sherlock is spooning him, his arm slung around John’s waist. His nose is buried in John’s hair, as if its scent helps him sleep. Both naked, the feeling of Sherlock’s skin is the fucking best in the world. 

The tent’s polyester fabric gleams bright blue with morning sunshine, casting patterns on their skin. John listens to the soothing, ever-present whisper of the ocean, the cries of the seagulls and the wind’s gentle caress in the pines. He has come to love these sounds, and for a split second he wonders what waking up to the silence of his bedroom at home will feel like. Unease starts to tighten his stomach, and suddenly he’s clammy and cold in spite of the warm summer morning. He quickly pushes the thought away. 

Instead, John looks at Sherlock’s hand resting on the naked skin below his belly button. He gently runs his fingers along Sherlock’s index finger, along his thumb, across every knuckle and the soft ridges of the veins at the back of Sherlock’s hand. As John’s thoughts stray to last night again, his relaxed, even breathing gets faster and his hands trembles the slightest bit. 

He didn’t just imagine or dream it, did he? 

_Next time, John, next time I want you to fuck me._

No, it really happened. John can still hear Sherlock’s voice, broken and ragged and out of breath. He vividly remembers how fiercely he came after hearing the words, unable to believe what Sherlock had said. Everything they did last night was fucking incredible. John lifts his hand to his nose and smells his fingers. He finds the scent of Sherlock there, slightly muskier and headier than usual, but, after all, nothing but Sherlock. 

John’s breath hitches recalling how he touched Sherlock last night, and he exhales sharply, feeling the huff of breath cool on his skin. The tent seems to be getting warmer by the minute. 

Sherlock wants to sleep with John like — like that. He wants John inside him. Fucking hell. 

John swallows hard. He‘d had no idea he’d want this so much himself, that it would suddenly mean so much to him. That he’d crave it with every fibre of his being. He can barely wait for it to happen, and yet, it feels like a huge thing to do. 

John takes a deep shivery breath, relishing the arousal building in his groin, making his whole body sing with anticipation. Slowly he reaches for his cock. 

He bites his lips as he brushes his fingertips across the warm silky skin, relishing just how fucking hard he is, and, Christ, it feels good. He caresses his cock lightly, a sweet, teasing hint of a touch. He just wants to add a bit of sensation to the desire simmering in every cell of his body, but he gasps nonetheless. He wants to draw this out, to enjoy every single moment of wanting and yearning. He wants to feel how much he’s turned on by the prospect of doing this with Sherlock, the prospect of fucking him. He groans, more shakily, just _thinking_ about it. 

John closes his eyes and recalls how it felt when he slipped his fingers into Sherlock’s tight entrance last night. He pictures pushing the slick head of his cock slowly against Sherlock’s sphincter, exhaling a helpless, gravelly sigh. He strokes the tip firmly, pretending it’s Sherlock he feels there, and not his own fingers. He fantasises about sliding into Sherlock’s body, feeling how the muscle finally gives way, and the sensation of tight, wet heat. Oh fuck, he can almost _see_ Sherlock lying in front of him, his erection flushed against his belly and his legs spread to let John in. He can almost hear Sherlock breathing hard and fast through his open mouth with his lips all red and wet from kissing. And he can almost see the look in Sherlock’s eyes, just like the one he shot him last night. So fucking open, not holding anything back. 

John bites his lips and groans in spite of it, breathing harder now. He vows to himself that he’ll go so fucking slowly when he sleeps with Sherlock. He’ll give him all the time he needs to get used to it, to the way John’s cock feels inside him. He’ll do his fucking best not to cause any discomfort or pain. It has to feel every bit as amazing for Sherlock as it will for him. 

Thinking of the orgasm Sherlock had last night, John sighs, a low and desperate sound in the silent tent, and he can’t help but stroke himself a bit faster. 

Sherlock stirs behind him. The sleeping bag must have slipped down their legs while they were asleep. It’s tangled around their feet. Now it rustles loudly in the silence of the tent. Sherlock moves, and presses his lips lightly against John’s neck. 

Sherlock starts to caress John’s belly in slow, sleepy strokes, following the fine line of dark-blond hair down from John’s belly button with his fingers. When he touches the head of John’s hard cock, he hums, a low vibration in his chest that John can feel with his whole body. Sherlock kisses John’s neck again, and when he runs his finger further down, he finds John’s hand there, too. 

“Oh,” Sherlock whispers, and his fingers start searching, exploring what John is doing there. Sherlock laughs, a small, content rumble, and starts to move his hand slowly up and down John’s shaft. 

John shivers with desire at Sherlock’s touch, he melts into his arms and against his body. Oh God, it doesn’t need much to make him come, does it? 

Sherlock breathes another kiss against John’s nape. He touches him so fucking lightly that John arches into his caresses with a long groan. A moment later, John feels Sherlock lick his neck, warm and wet from his tongue first, then cool when Sherlock’s breath brushes across it. It’s a sensation so light and unexpected that it almost tickles, setting every nerve-ending alight and making John shiver. He’s sensitive as hell on the back of his neck and down his spine. 

When Sherlock hums again, John can hear a smile in his voice. And then there are more kisses, soft and open-mouthed, with wet lips and a hint of tongue, conveying enough of Sherlock’s own desire to send goosebumps all over John’s back. 

John gasps. He has no idea how it works, but everything Sherlock‘s doing to his neck is intensifying the sensation of his fingers dancing across John’s balls and cock. As Sherlock grazes his teeth across John’s neck, he presses his hard cock against the spot where John’s thighs meets his arse. 

John sighs, pushing his buttocks against Sherlock’s groin, and Sherlock’s breath stutters for a moment. He must be far more aroused than John had thought. John does it again, pressing his arse against Sherlock’s cock, making Sherlock tremble behind him once more. 

Sherlock strokes John’s cock a little faster. John starts to roll his hips, thrusting into Sherlock’s hand and grinding his buttocks against his cock at the same time. He can tell how this is turning Sherlock on, how he‘s getting harder; the place where his cock is rubbing against John’s buttocks is getting wet. John feels Sherlock’s lips on his shoulder, and an instant later, Sherlock bites John’s _trapezius,_ stifling a moan. John loses himself in the wave of desire that pulses through his body, pushing his cock faster into Sherlock’s slick fist. 

Before John knows it, he’s coming. With sudden force, orgasm overtakes him, bathing him in total, breathless bliss, shattering him into shivers and moans. 

Less than a heartbeat later, Sherlock’s ragged gasps become erratic. Smearing rough kisses on John’s shoulder, Sherlock licks his skin. He start starts to suck, hard enough to make John’s skin prickle, hard enough to hurt, and hard enough to leave a purple mark. John exhales a wondering laugh once he understands that Sherlock is giving him a love bite. He loves it. All this time, Sherlock’s cock is pushing against the damp skin of John’s buttocks and thighs until Sherlock groans one last time. He comes all over his arse, holding John tight in his arms. 

John just lies there, out of breath, with Sherlock’s heaving chest pressed against his sweaty back, and a huge smile on his face. 

_I fucking love you,_ he almost says, while Sherlock tousles his long fingers into the damp blond hair above John’s nape. John closes his eyes. 

I want to love you in every possible way, he thinks, images of last night still lingering in his mind. And suddenly he needs to know if it is just something Sherlock said while he was drunk on the intensity of a climax, high on the rush of daring to do something he might only ever have dreamt about before. If being fucked suddenly feels too much in the bright light of day. 

“What — what you said,” John starts with a dry, raspy voice, “last night…” 

“Hmmmm.” 

John is sure Sherlock hasn’t even opened his eyes. He knows exactly how Sherlock must be lying, slotted into every curve of John’s body, enveloping him with his longer limbs. They fit together fucking perfectly. Sherlock will have his eyes closed, his face relaxed, the smallest of smiles lingering at the corners of his beautiful mouth, strands of dark hair sticking lightly to his temples. 

“Do you still—,” John says, in an attempt to find the right words. “Is that — is that still on?” 

Sherlock breathes another, slow kiss against John’s nape, and then he replies, “Course it is.” 

“You still want me…” John asks, and he has to clear his throat before he dares say it, “to fuck you?” 

John’s heart suddenly beats loud against his chest. 

Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s hair. A full minute passes before he finally replies, “I think I’ve wanted you to fuck me since you first kissed me.” 

John is stunned. He exhales a long, whispered laugh. He wants to say something, he wants to ask _why_ and _what,_ but he doesn’t. Sherlock hasn’t finished talking. John can tell by the tension in his body, by the way he’s still holding John, that right now, he’s trying to force all the things on his mind into words. 

“I underestimated the intensity of my reaction when being touched by you,” Sherlock says after a moment. “The intensity of what I would feel. Emotions.” 

Sherlock pauses, and John holds his breath. “I didn’t expect I’d want to be touched by you so desperately.” 

John swallows hard. _I fucking love you, you know that?_ , he thinks. 

Sherlock clears his throat, straightening the slightest bit behind John. His fingers are still entangled in John’s short hair, but his hand rests against his skull now, and his arm is a heavy weight on John’s marked shoulder. 

“I want you to be the one I do this with. I — I never wanted anyone else before. I thought that you — might be good at it. The sex, and—,” he explains, suddenly sounding muffled, trying to hide the insecurity showing in his voice. Sherlock swallows before he continues, almost in a whisper, “making sure I’m fine, probably.” 

John turns around and wraps his arms around Sherlock. He hides his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he holds him. He tries to keep himself from saying something idiotic just because — because no one’s ever said things like this to him. 

John‘s breaths feel too deep, too fast. He draws back and looks at Sherlock for a second. Then he kisses him fiercely, not giving a fuck about morning breath or anything any more. Sherlock kisses back, meeting him with the same amount of emotion, threading his fingers back into the short blond strands of John’s hair. 

“Of course, Sherlock. Of course I will,” John says as they break their kiss. He looks into Sherlock’s eyes for the first time today. They glitter silver, tinged with blue and green; deep and unfathomable. When John feels like he is about to drown in them he tears his gaze away, even though he can’t imagine a happier death. 

He looks at Sherlock’s lips instead, and down at his chest, at the freckles on his shoulders. At his small, gorgeous ears. A smile curling the corners of his lips, he brushes a silent kiss against Sherlock’s earlobe, inhaling the scent of him. 

Sherlock runs his fingers along John’s hair line, and when John looks at him, he’s smiling, too. John knows that this is a massive thing for Sherlock, but — but Sherlock fucking trusts him to do this with him, and John fucking wants it. 

“And… when do you want to do it?” John asks. 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, although his eyes still hold a hint of insecurity. But there’s teasing in their expression too, of course there is, and he says confidently, “as soon as possible.” 

John almost melts with love for him, chuckling, wondering how the fuck his life has become _this._

He leans in and kisses Sherlock again, sucking at his plush lower lip and listening to the soft, rumbling sound of Sherlock’s laughter. He draws back a fraction and looks at Sherlock’s eyes from up close. He can see his own reflection in his pupils, and it’s strange to see himself there, in this window to Sherlock’s soul. It leaves him lost for words. He pulls him closer and into another deep kiss, until they’re both out of breath, until John feels as close to him as possible without bending the laws of nature. 

Eventually John lets go of Sherlock. It’s warm inside the tent, he’s thirsty, and there’s still come on their skin. He sits up and cleans his belly and buttocks with an old t-shirt. He unzips the door of the tent a few inches — just enough to let in some fresh morning air — and searches for a bottle of water. Once he finds it, he takes a long sip, and offers the bottle to Sherlock. While Sherlock drinks, John stretches out on his sleeping mat, looking at the blue fabric above him. 

Sherlock lies down next to him, placing his head right next to John’s, so close that they touch. He takes John’s hand and the feeling of Sherlock’s large hand enveloping his own makes John smile. 

They lie like that for a few moments, and John briefly wonders what Sherlock is thinking about. But before he can come up with an answer, the thought slips away, making room for the contentment their closeness has created. It feels like the golden rays of the sun down at the beach warming his wet skin, cool from swimming in the ocean. 

“John?” Sherlock asks, not much later. There’s a huge question lingering behind this simple word. 

“Mmmh,” John hums. He’s running his fingers across Sherlock’s hand again, just like he had when he’d woken up. He’d tell him anything he asked about, anything at all. 

“Your parents. Why… why did they split up?” 

John sucks in a breath in surprise. His hand stills. 

“Oh. Christ,” John says, staring more intently at the tent ceiling, at the dark blue thread of the seam, at the places where it’s coming apart, and at the holes where the needle had pierced the fabric. They’ve been pulled into wide gaps over years of use, the aging material yielding under the strain. “That’s sort of a long story. Why do you want to know?” 

“I want to know everything about you, John,” Sherlock states. 

John blushes, and he turns his head to kiss Sherlock again. And wanting to know _everything_ — that’s something John understands perfectly. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to figure out how to tell this story, _his_ story. Just start at the beginning, he thinks. It still takes him a few more deep breaths, a few more moments, until he manages, “They split up three years ago, when I was fourteen. But I guess it all started much earlier.” 

The words feel strange in his mouth. He clears his throat against the insecurity trembling in his voice, and forces himself to go on. 

“Things like that never just happen, do they? My mum has told me quite a lot about it, but for some of the time I was too young to understand. I probably don’t even know the whole story.” 

It’s not easy, talking about this. He’s never found it easy, not even with Harry. He’s never told anyone much more than _Yeah, my dad’s moved out,_ and _Everything’s fine, yeah, really, absolutely fine._

“A few things added up. When I was eleven, my mum went back to work. She used to be a receptionist, but she did a vocational course thing again, because she’d been at home since Harry was born. It was something with lower management, she learned about personnel planning, accounting and stuff. She must’ve been quite good. She immediately got this job offer from a hotel in Winchester.” 

He thinks of how his mum left with Harry and him in the morning, dropping them off at school before she hurried to the course she was taking. How she’d done her own homework, bent over books and photocopied hand-outs on the kitchen table, while John was doing his. It was such a strange sight. All those pages of squared paper covered in her tidy handwriting, with calculations and charts instead of shopping lists, hastily scribbled down on the back of a used envelope. 

“My dad didn’t really like it. I think he preferred the idea that he was the one who earned the money for us. That he was the — the _man_ in family. He’s… God, he’s fucking old-fashioned, sometimes.” 

John sighs, trying to think of a way of putting it without making it sound weird. 

“You know, he isn’t actually a — a bad man. He didn’t treat my mum badly, or us. But he could have done a fuck of a lot better.” 

John huffs an angry breath through his nose before he goes on. 

“He didn’t support my mum. She was frustrated, and she’d felt left alone. But she still thought it was the right thing to do, going back to work. She’d loved her job before she had us, and they could use the money. They’d bought the house when I was little and they were still paying off the loan. They still are. Fucking high interest rates back then, my mum says.” 

John vaguely registers that now, it’s Sherlock stroking his hand. He takes a moment to exhale and unclench it, he’s holding on to Sherlock far too tight. 

“She’d only been in her new job for a few months when my dad lost his job. I was almost twelve by then. He’d been working in logistics. A haulage firm. Worked himself up from driving lorries. But the place where he used to work had to close down, and they all lost their jobs. He’d always said that people like him are always needed, but apparently it wasn’t quite that easy. He couldn’t find a new job for almost a year, and he got frustrated as hell. I don’t know if he was glad my mum could take extra shifts and extra hours. He never showed it, if he was.” 

John remembers how worried he’d been when he’d learned that their dad was unemployed. He’d looked up at Harry, still a head taller than him, back then. He’d seen the same fear and the same questions in her eyes — if they were going to have enough money, or if they’d have to leave their house, maybe even move schools. Their mum had stayed calm, although she can’t really have been, inside. 

“My mum liked the new job and even the extra hours, although it was stressful as hell. I guess they had a deal, that my dad would do more household stuff while she was out at work. But it didn’t work. He hated being at home all day and everything that came with it, all the women’s jobs, as he called it. He didn’t know how to get it all done, and probably he just didn’t want to do it. Most of it was still left to mum. Harry and I did what we could, went shopping, did some of the laundry, cleaned up. We got closer to mum, even though we barely saw her, sometimes.” 

Where are all these words coming from, he wonders, all these things he suddenly needs to say? He didn’t know he had them in him. He can’t stop, even though he’s probably saying far too much — more than Sherlock asked for or wanted. He wonders if this might be the first time someone’s listened to him, _really_ listened. 

“I guess dad felt fucking lost and useless without his job, and jealous at the connection we had with mum. He wasn’t fucking equipped to deal with any of that. With the way things had changed.” 

John never knows if he should blame his father for his uselessness or pity him. Usually he just ends up angry. They’d all had to adapt, hadn’t they? 

“He changed. He changed a fuck of a lot. It was like he turned into a different person.” 

John clenches his jaw at the memory, at the way he’d been so fucking scared of his dad. One day to the next, John hadn‘t known how he‘d need to be treated to make sure he didn’t freak out about spilled milk or dirty rugby trainers left in the middle of the hallway — or over nothing at all. 

“He never laughed anymore, he was fucking bad tempered, shouting at us over nothing. The longer he was unemployed the more he let himself go. He was angry at everything and everyone, and anything could set him off.” 

John pauses, and without his voice, the tent feels silent. It takes a moment until he hears the sounds of the waves and faraway voices and Sherlock’s calm breathing. Until he remembers that all of this is over now, and has been for years. He’s here now, with Sherlock. 

John turns his head a fraction, not quite meeting Sherlock’s eyes, but enough to see that he’s listening intently, his brow furrowed and his soft lips drawn into a tight line. Just as if he was right at the side of the child John had still been back then, ready to make John’s battles his own. 

John squeezes his hand, before he starts talking again. 

“That was when my dad and Harry just couldn’t get on anymore. She was thirteen, and she got more and more stubborn. Basically she never did what he told her. I’m not sure how it started, maybe he demanded too much from her initially and she couldn’t do what he asked, or she couldn’t do it quick enough. Or maybe she never got it right, so he’d ended up shouting at her. In the end, she refused or ignored him out of pure spite. They were waging a war, the two of them.” 

There’d been shouting and slamming doors almost every day. Harry used to run out of the front door, her face streaked with tears of anger and hurt. She’d cross the street to her best friend‘s house without giving a fuck about the traffic. His stomach cramps just like it did all those years ago as he lurked at the top of the staircase, next to his bedroom door. There’s a lump in his throat. He swallows, and tries to go on. 

“And then there was—” 

John stops in the middle of the sentence. It’s difficult to talk about this part. He still feels shame and anger burning inside him. After Harry had stormed out of the house, John had, at some point, always heard the inevitable _clonk_ of heavy glass being set down on the wood of the kitchen table. 

“Then there was the drinking,” Sherlock states. 

“Yeah. The fucking drinking,” John says through gritted teeth. He huffs a grim laugh. “Always the fucking drinking. He alsways enjoyed a drink — for as long as I can remember — but as long as things were fine, it didn’t really get out of hand. Well, almost never. But during that year after he’d lost his job, it did. It got worse.” 

John clenches his jaw so tightly it starts to hurt. He hadn’t known he was still so angry. He hasn’t been this angry in ages. 

“I was so fucking ashamed every single night I heard him coming home from the pub. The endless stabbing at the front door with the key, until he found the keyhole. The way he‘d stamp up the stairs, never taking his shoes off. I could tell by his fucking steps how drunk he was. On bad nights, I’d hear him from the street. He’d be singing or shouting, and the whole fucking street could hear that Robert Watson was pissed again.” 

John would hear his dad go into the bathroom, hear him piss or shit, because he never closed the door when he was drunk. He never threw up, though. Too much of a practised drinker. John never knew what happened afterwards, when his dad went to bed. Once the bedroom door closed, there’d been silence. He’d always pictured his mum turned away on her side, pretending to be asleep, waiting for her husband to start snoring before she, too, would finally be able to rest. 

John takes a few deep breaths before he carries on. 

“He found a new job, eventually. He promised us that everything would get better now, that it would get back to the way it used to be. He was so fucking enthusiastic. But the new job was different from his old one, and even though he started out really well, it — it didn’t work. He didn’t get on with his new boss. I don’t think he managed to cut down the drinking as much as he should’ve.” 

For a few seconds, John closes his eyes. He shields his face with his hand, not even knowing what he’s shielding it from. Sherlock threads one of his fingers between his, intertwining them. 

“After a few months, he got drunk on a Tuesday night.” 

John takes his hand away from his face, and gives a light press to Sherlock’s hand. He’s so fucking grateful Sherlock’s listening to all this shit. 

“With the new job, he’d promised my mum to stay away from the pub. He only had a beer at home occasionally, during the weekends. At least in the beginning.” He takes a deep breath, trying to widen his chest, to beat away the tightness there. “My mum had a late shift at the hotel that day, and it was his turn to make dinner and make sure we did our homework and went to bed on time and everything. She freaked out when she got home at 11 p.m. and he wasn’t there. Harry and I were in bed already. We had corn flakes for dinner and at ten we decided to go to sleep. We’d tried to call mum at work, but we didn’t get her. It must have been a fucking busy night. We’d even thought about walking over to the pub and looking for him, but we didn’t do it, in the end. I guess neither of us wanted to see how much he was losing control. How he was throwing his fucking life away. We were too embarrassed. Too — ashamed.” 

His voice is low, just a whisper. Sherlock is holding his breath, listening to him. 

“I feel like they’d been shouting at each other in the kitchen half the night. I can still hear my mum’s fury, and my dad’s slurred responses, coming far too late, and never getting to the point.” 

John tries to repeat some of the things his mum had screamed at his dad that night, sometime past midnight. He can’t. He can’t say them, in his voice, here. He doesn’t think he ever will. 

“It wasn’t only about that night. It was about the whole two years since my mum had gone back to work. She’d complained occasionally, earlier, but… but I guess she’d swallowed most of her frustration down. She must have fucking clung to the hope that things would get better if dad only had work again.” 

He’d tried not to listen to their shouting, but it had been impossible. He’d hidden his head under his pillow and pressed the palms of his hands against his ears, just like he had when he was little and a thunderstorm was raging outside. He gave up, eventually, but he stayed there, his head still buried under the pillow, feeling his own breath hot on his face. He’d tried to focus on the sickening feeling of misery instead of the words being screamed in the kitchen. When he’d heard his bedroom door creak, followed by light, barefoot steps on the carpet, he’d been fucking relieved. 

“Harry came to my room that night. She sat down on my bed like she always did, and didn’t say a word for fucking ages. But her eyes were all wide and scared and teary, in the darkness.” 

She‘d stretched out her hand to him. He’d taken it, and held it, until the argument in the kitchen was over for the night, until they’d heard their dad’s heavy steps in the hallway, out of the front door. 

“In the end, my dad left again. I don’t know where he went that night. But I remember my mum sitting down on the hallway floor after the front door shut. She was crying. We went downstairs after a few minutes, and she was still crying, but she tried to smile through her tears. ‘Hey, you two,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry for the fucking mess. I’m so sorry.’” He swallows. “I’d never heard her say _fuck_ before.” 

They’d sat down next to her, crouching against the hallway walls under the lamp, too bright in the darkness of the night. They’d hugged her, murmuring _It’s alright, mum. It’s alright. Don’t you worry._

“Harry cried a bit and — God, I did as well. I didn’t even know why. He hadn’t hit her or anything, he never did, thank God. He never hit any of us. It was just that — that things were fucking falling apart. And there was nothing we could do. I felt so fucking helpless. And suddenly—,” he pauses. “Suddenly it felt like there were only three of us, from then on.” 

John doesn’t say another word for a while. He thinks back to how he’d understood exactly what had been going on, that their family was breaking apart, and how much he wished he didn’t understand. He‘d wanted to go back, to when he was younger, to when everything had still been okay. To when their dad was the strong man who’d carry John home on one arm when he was too tired to cycle back from the park, the small red bike in his other hand. Who’d put up the tent in their back garden while John was watched him from the swingset, and carried him back through the darkness into the house when John got cold and scared in the middle of the night. John misses the days before any of this mess happened. 

Sherlock turns his head and brushes a kiss against John’s cheekbone. John barely notices at first. When he does, he presses his cheek against Sherlock’s, feeling Sherlock’s warmth and his hair touching his skin. He listens to the sound of the waves, a steady, gentle noise that makes his memories feel surreal, out of place on this bright, sunny morning. He takes one more deep breath, and pulls himself together. He wants to finish his story. 

“He came back after two days. They had a long talk and started couples‘ counseling. He even might have been to some AA meetings, I’m not sure. But — that must have been when the thing with the other woman started. We only found out later. He’d met her at the pub, she was quite a bit younger than him. I guess she admired every fucking word he said and he felt accepted again. I met her once.” 

He goes silent for a moment. 

“They tried again, mum and dad, for a while. But eventually, dad just — somehow he vanished from our lives, bit by bit. He’d be gone for one night at first, then two or three in a row. He didn’t come home after work. He’d show up a couple of days later, unexpectedly, his clothes smelling of a different washing powder, of a different flat. Like a stranger coming for a visit. We saw less of his drinking, which was good, but we couldn’t keep him from drifting away from us. And we’d grown accustomed to being just the three of us. I guess we just didn’t need him anymore. All those days, he must have been with — with her.” 

John notices how tense he‘s grown since he started telling Sherlock. He tries to relax, but as soon as he goes on talking, his whole body goes rigid again. 

“I never knew if I should be glad, that he was going, or sad. I guess I was both. It hurt. I didn’t understand why it hurt so much. It felt like — like I’d done something wrong, like he was holding something against me, and I didn’t fucking know what it was. I didn’t know how to bring it up, I couldn’t even bring myself to touch him anymore, on those rare days when he was at home. It was as if — as if there was this invisible wall between us that neither of us could get past.” 

His whole body starts to feel heavy with resignation. 

“But it didn’t matter, none of it did, because he wouldn’t have been able to talk about it either.” 

He sighs. He‘s not whispering anymore, he stopped a few minutes back. Tiredness creeps through his limbs, and he wonders how that’s possible, when he‘s only just woken up. 

“Six months later, my mum finally decided to get the divorce. She told him on a Saturday, when Harry and I were at our nan’s. When we got back, he was just storming out of the house, bag in hand, not even looking at us, all that dramatic shit. We stopped dead on the way to the front door, and we both knew that he was gone for good. I never thought about it like this, but I guess that’s the exact reason why mum sent us to nan’s place that day. She wanted to be able to discuss things with him calmly, try and solve this whole fucking mess as well as it could be. But it went wrong, just like everything else that had to do with him.” 

John doesn’t want to talk anymore. He’s never talked this much, ever, in his whole life. He’s tired and he feels empty and drained, every syllable too much. And he wants to forget about it, all of it, ignore that part of his life, pretend that it’s always just been his mum, Harry, and him. He wants to forget about it, although the gap his dad had left is burning with pain in a way that it hasn’t in years. 

Sherlock turns and kisses him again, on that spot between his brows. He rests his lips against John’s skin for a long time. He runs his fingertips across John’s neck, down his back, and up again. John’s weariness eases a bit. How can Sherlock be so good at comforting, John wonders, when he’s — when he’s never been with anyone? John is surprised by the answer that comes straight into his mind. It’s probably because Sherlock knows what it feels like to be alone, tired, and desperate. 

“What happened then?” Sherlock whispers, his lips still touching John’s forehead. His breath is warm on John’s face, and John closes his eyes, letting his head rest against Sherlock’s lips. 

“You don’t know already?” John asks back, remembering Sherlock’s ability to deduce people from invisible clues, from the smallest facts. He wonders why Sherlock had asked him about his parents’ divorce instead of simply deducing it. But maybe he just wanted to hear it from John, maybe he’s already drawing his own conclusions. John doesn’t mind. He can’t think of anyone his story would be safer with. 

“It got harder for you financially. The negotiations between your parents proved far more difficult than either of them had anticipated,” Sherlock says calmly. “But your life still improved. In spite of the considerable stress of the impending divorce, of the long hours your mother worked, of Harry’s growing difficulties processing what had happened and her attempts at coping by getting drunk.” 

John sighs. “About fucking right.” 

He closes his eyes. His mum works long hours, far too long. Too long for her, and too long for Harry and him. And yet it’s still not enough for them not to worry about paying the bills, not to mention affording med school. It’s not enough to actually let the three of them breathe, to let them be easy with each other. 

John squeezes his eyes shut, now, but he tries to face it. Harry does drink to cope. But then, who is he to judge, sometimes he drinks, too. He drinks when it all gets too fucking much, just like he did when Sherlock came out to him. He gasps another breath, trying to keep the fucking panic at bay. Things are just about to tip over into _too fucking much,_ threatening suffocate him, to drown him. They’re just fucking making sure that he’ll never make it out of this fucking mess his life has been over the last few years. 

But Harry’s been drinking less since she started going out with Gemma, he reminds himself. She even resisted the temptation of the oblivion her friend Lorna and extasy had offered. It gives John hope, and he breathes more freely now. He’s in a better place himself, after — after realising he’s bi. It doesn’t have anything to do with the situation at home, but he’s more himself now. He’s more like the John he wants to be. He’s solved one fucking thing in his life. And it’s a big one. 

Suddenly he’s aware that he’s naked; he forgot while he was talking. He’s never felt this fucking naked, it’s more than just not wearing any clothes. So much more. But Sherlock’s naked, too. That helps, he thinks. 

John breathes out through his nose, a long, soft sound, reminding him of the wind in the trees overlooking the beach and the ocean. He pictures them, the ones next to their tent, and the one next to his bench. How they’ve stood there for years, decades. Sometimes he thinks that from a tree’s perspective, time must feel different. All the things weighing heavy on his mind can’t be more than a heartbeat in time for them, blurring into the background noise of the world going round and round, year after year after year. Maybe it’s time to take a step back and just — have some fucking faith. He’s not alone anymore. 

So John lies there, naked in Sherlock’s arms, his forehead resting against Sherlock’s lips. More than anything, John has the feeling that Sherlock isn’t just the person he loves, maybe even his boyfriend, but his _friend_. The one who seems to understand the things John says and all the things he doesn’t say, who sees what John is too scared or ashamed to let show. 

They’ve only got five days together. John has to stop himself from calculating the hours, hating that he even notices how their time is slipping through their fingers. 

He doesn’t want to talk about what will happen once they’re back in England. He should, though. He should have the fucking balls to talk about it, to tell Sherlock that he fucking dreads it, and how much he’ll miss him. He should say that he’s never told anyone the story of his parents’ breakup. He should tell him that they have to see each other again as soon as humanly possible. 

Most of all he should tell him that he just wants to get this last fucking year of school over with, and that then, he wants to be with him. Fucking _always._

But John can’t talk about going home, not now, not when they’re here, and free, and — this. After telling Sherlock about the divorce he can hardly stand thinking of home. 

— 

John feels off-kilter all morning. The emotional exhaustion that comes with reliving difficult memories has settled in his gut like a cold shadow, sickening him. He can’t decide if he needs distraction or if he needs to rest instead. He definitely needs as much sunshine as possible to blow it all away, to step back from the things that happened years ago. They don’t have any right to make him sad now, not when he’s here with Sherlock. He needs to have some fucking faith. 

As soon as they’ve finished their coffee and breakfast John suggests going to the beach. He doesn’t even wait for Harry and Gemma, they’re at the shop or at the showers or God knows where. He needs the sun’s light and he needs to be blinded by it, to feel its warmth on his skin until he’s red and sweaty. 

They’re among the first people down at the beach, and they walk to their usual spot. For the next few hours they lounging in each other’s orbit on their towels, listening to Sherlock’s CDs. Finally exhaustion wins over the need for distraction, the batteries die and the music fades from their minds. They sleep. 

When John wakes to bright summer sun, the salty smell of the ocean and the warm sand, Sherlock’s curled up next to him, so close that his warm, regular breaths brush against John’s neck. Slowly John sits up, with heavy limbs and sticky skin, the stale taste of sleep in his mouth. Now the sea is luring him, he yearns for the fresh water of the ocean to wash away the sweat and banish the morning’s memories. 

Sherlock’s sleeping soundly. John wonders whether to wait for him or to wake him up and take him out for a swim. In the end, he just brushes his fingers across the warm skin of Sherlock’s shoulders. John checks that he’s properly shaded from the sun by the linen. Sherlock doesn’t even stir. 

As John turns to put his sunglasses away, he spots the purple mark on his shoulder. He straightens with pride. This is what having a new tattoo must feel like, going out for the first time, the ink on his skin for everyone to see. Knowing that it was Sherlock who did this makes John’s head spin. No, he thinks, it doesn’t feel like a tattoo. It feels like a fucking ring. 

John gets up and walks through the hot sand to the sea, shading his eyes from the sunlight. Sherlock will know where John is before he even opens his eyes. He’ll be able to tell by the way John’s towel is crumpled, or from how he abandoned his book, face-down in the sand. 

John wades into the water, and a wave washes over his legs and swimming trunks. He doesn’t wait for the next one, but jumps right into the ocean. 

The water is all cool, salty smoothness, and he dives through the shallow waters until the need for air forces him up to the surface again. He swims away from the beach. He loves the movement of his arms and legs in the water, the steady rhythm of strokes and breaths, the way it calms and exhausts him at the same time. 

John watches the waves in front of him, and after a few minutes he can’t see anything but water. The beach is far behind him now, and it would be easy to trick himself into thinking there was nothing but the sea. Just blue waves everywhere, nothing solid, nothing constant except for the ever-changing ocean. 

He pictures Sherlock, still asleep under the blue linen of the sun shade, turned on his side. Sherlock in his dark blue swimming trunks on his pale green towel, with that tan you can’t see until he takes off his clothes. 

And there John is again, thinking of Sherlock, naked. He takes a too-quick breath, losing his rhythm of steady strokes and deep inhales. 

His thoughts stray to the first time he’d slept with a girl. It was a year and a half ago, with his first girlfriend. And it really just _happened._ They’d both been insecure, unaccustomed to it all, and they hadn’t really talked about how far they wanted to go. John hadn’t dared to ask. 

A few days before it happened, his girlfriend had casually mentioned that her best friend’s mum was a social worker. Sometimes sex education in schools or youth centres was part of her job. His girlfriend had told him about this huge box of condoms in the social worker’s study and that she basically made all her kids’ friends take some, just to be on the safe side. 

They’d spent the next Friday evening together, John and his girlfriend, at her place, and her parents had been out. They’d lain on her bed, listening to The Smashing Pumpkins, talking, and kissing. She’d sneaked two bottles of beer from the fridge. They’d shared it and laughed, and kissed some more. They’d both lost their jumpers, and at some point, she’d been lying there in her jeans, the button already undone. She’d been barefoot, wearing her black vest, purple bra straps showing underneath. Eventually she’d gone to use the loo. John had waited for her on her bed, feeling light-headed, which shouldn’t have been possible after just one beer. 

When she’d come back, she’d said, “Brought you something, John,” hiding her hand behind her back. 

“Another beer?” he’d asked with a laugh. He’d only noticed the firmness in her voice a moment later, the kind that that tightens your throat when you’re fucking mustering all your courage. 

“No,” had been all she’d replied. She’d sat down on her bed, and placed her hand between them on the quilted coverlet. When she’d opened it, John spotted two small rectangular packs, silver foil with red print. 

Two condoms. 

When they’d kissed after that, all he’d thought was that he hoped he wouldn’t taste awfully like beer. They’d slipped under the covers, both suddenly silent and shy. They’d undressed with increasingly shaky hands, fumbling with zips and buttons and the hooks of her bra. John had managed to put the condom on without making a total mess, and he’d felt her hold her breath when they — when they did it. He had no idea if it hurt her, he’d been as careful as possible. It had taken her a while to relax, but in the end, she’d seemed to enjoy it. He did, and he’d felt a little guilty about it. 

Later that evening, riding back home on his bike through the darkness and the cold January rain, John had wondered why everybody made such a fucking fuss about sex. It had been good, somehow, but — well. It had been overwhelming, but not the way he’d thought. He’d somehow expected to be a different person now, more mature, more like an adult. To understand things a bit better. But he was the same as he’d been before, just more confused. 

It had felt different from the handjobs they’d shared so far, all clumsy and experimental. And it certainly had felt different from wanking, but was this what it all was about? Was this what sex — is? 

Now John is swimming through the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. They glitter with sunlight, and he must have swum for ages. He recalls every detail of that night’s weird feeling of emptiness, of the vacuum inside him left when you expect a strange, undefinable, life-changing _something_ and reality turns up with _something less._

But eventually, sex had started to be that _something_ for John. He’d found out a few things about how sex works, and he’d probably got better at it. He’d learned how to draw it out and how to explore his girlfriend’s arousal. Eventually, he did start to feel more mature, and a bit closer to being an adult. 

And sleeping with Sherlock is a fucking lot more than just _something_. 

John’s proud that Sherlock seems to enjoy having sex with him so much. Sex with Sherlock is as if it happened in a different universe, where the settings and boundaries of his earlier relationships simply don’t apply. Sherlock’s fucking outstanding in every way. 

John swallows, his throat dry from the exertion of swimming. He turns around to look at the beach. He’s fucking far out. It’s time to go back. 

But for one more moment, just enough to draw another, long breath, he stays where he is. He slowly strokes his arms through the blue-green waves, broken with golden lines of sunlight. He can feel them lift him up and down, gently carrying him back to the beach, to Sherlock. 

John’s nervous about fucking Sherlock, quite nervous, actually. So far he’d never known there’d be something like this, a first time, before it happened. He’d hoped for it sometimes, yes, and usually he’d made plans for it in one way or another, but he’d never really known. He’d never talked about it with his partner. 

He has questions, things to discuss. They really should use condoms. Is he being over-cautious? How will he make sure he doesn’t hurt him? How do you even do it the right way, anal sex? 

He rubs his hand across his face, wiping saltwater and wet strands of hair from his forehead, exhaling sharply. 

Everything that is happening between Sherlock and him is going further than he’d have dared to hope. John doesn’t quite understand why fucking him suddenly feels so big — their first kiss had been _big,_ their first sex had been fucking mind-blowing. Realising that he’s in love with Sherlock, with a boy, a man, whatever — it had changed absolutely everything for him. Fucking him feels like a step he retrace; once he’s done it, it’s done. John wonders if it will change him. 

John rakes his arms through the waves ahead of him and starts to swim back to shore. For all his nervousness, he’s also eager to find out. He’s also fucking excited. 

— 

They leave the beach when the sun gets too hot, seeking shelter in the shade of the pines next to their tent. John is hungry, and he checks how much food they have left before he even gets out of his swimming trunks. The seawater has dried into white lines of salt on the fabric of his trunks, washed out and bleached by the sun. He feels the salt tautening his skin, he needs to take a shower, sometime soon. 

Sherlock sits next to him, fumbling the dead batteries out of his Discman. He nudges John’s side, and when John looks at him, Sherlock nods in the direction of the street. Eddie’s is back from hospital. He and James are walking right up to John’s and Sherlock’s tent. 

“Hey,” John says, getting up and taking a few steps towards them. 

Eddie smiles. There’s a big plaster on his forehead where the gash was, and another, smaller one on his knee. The bag Sherlock collected for James yesterday is slung over his shoulder. 

“Hello, John, Sherlock,” Eddie says, sounding much more like himself than he did the last time John had seen him. 

“You’re better?” John asks, but he already knows the answer. Eddie looks just fine. 

“Yes. No concussion, apparently, but as you said, they insisted on checking and kept me in hospital. And I got stitches, I guess Arnel’s already told you. No more swimming for me for the next few days,” he grimaces, pointing at his forehead. 

“Oh shit,” John laughs. 

“It’s okay. I’ll resort to lounging in the sun,” Eddie sighs. He goes silent for a moment, then stretches out his hand, and says very calmly, “Thank you, John. For your help. You’re bloody amazing.” 

John feels a bit odd formally shaking Eddie’s hand while he’s bare-chested and clad in his swimming trunks, smelling of the sea and probably a bit of sweat. “Yeah,” he laughs, feeling a blush heat his cheeks. “It’s alright. Glad I could help.” 

John’s gaze flickers from Eddie’s eyes, warm with gratitude, up to the white rectangle of gauze taped to his forehead. For a moment John wonders what stitching the wound must have been like, what kind of needle the doctors used, and how they dealt with the bleeding. He pictures his own hands in rubber gloves, gently pushing the wound closed, pushing a surgical needle through the torn skin. Adrenaline makes his heart beat faster, and he takes a deep breath. He fucking wants to be a doctor. 

He realises that he’s still holding Eddie’s hand, and he lets go, clearing his throat. “Take care of your head. If there’s anything I can do, just — you know. Ask.” 

“Thanks, John,” Eddie nods with a wide smile, and turns to leave. 

James is still standing in front of John, and for a split second, he looks at Sherlock and back. There’s that expression in his eyes again, and John still can’t tell what it‘s about. But James doesn’t meet John’s eyes, his gaze lingering on a spot on John’s body. But then he, too, smiles and follows Eddie, waving a “See you later, John.” 

John looks down at himself, scanning for what it might be that had caught James’s attention. 

It takes him a moment. It must have been the love bite, hard to miss on his shoulder. 

He turns to Sherlock, wanting to ask him if he saw James’s reaction as well. Sherlock’s still sitting in front of their tent, brushing a curl from his face, leaving traces of sand in his hair. He just smiles at John and shrugs. 

John trudges the few steps back to Sherlock. He stops once he’s at his side, playfully bumping his left knee against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock bumps back, and John can see him grinning. John stays where he is, with Sherlock leaning against his leg. 

It just feels too good, too easy to be here like this, and he can’t put into words how much he’d love to bend down and press a kiss to Sherlock’s ruffled curls. 

But Sherlock stirs and with a cat-like elegance, he crawls halfway into their tent, digs through his belongings. He returns with the pack of cigarettes in his hand. He flips it open and offers the last cigarette to John. 

John sits down, touching Sherlock from shoulder to knee, and lets him put the cigarette between his lips. When Sherlock lights it, they’re both grinning so hard that John almost coughs. 

They share the cigarette, their fingers touching for longer than necessary as they pass it between them. They don’t say a word, but look at each other over the burning cigarette, through fine threads and cloudy breaths of blue-grey smoke, smiles lingering in the corners of their lips. A few times John is almost sure that Sherlock is going to lean in and kiss him, not giving a fuck that anyone can see them. 

But then the girls come back, and with them their noise, talking and making fun. They must have been at the shop and bought some bread, and John is fiercely reminded of how hungry he is. 

They eat together, and all spend a lazy afternoon in the shade between their tents. Eventually, Sherlock stretches and yawns. 

“I’m bored,” Sherlock states, getting up. “Going to get a newspaper. And cigarettes.” 

“In fucking French, I bet,” John predicts, grinning at him, while Gemma vanishes into her tent. 

“In fucking French,” Sherlock says over his shoulder, already leaving. 

Only Harry and John are left to lie in the sand under the pines. John is propped up on his elbows, losing himself in the vast blue of the sea and sky and his own thoughts. Harry is reading and taking sips of coffee. 

Again John can’t help but think of Sherlock, and what they’re going to do. His heart beats so fast and so hard that he can feel it pulse in his throat. As soon as possible, Sherlock said. In the afternoon?, John wonders. No, too many people passing by their tent and everything, not to mention Harry and Gemma. But maybe — maybe tonight, when most folks from the tents around them will be at the dune. He just has to make sure that — Christ. He swallows. He’s going to have a talk with Harry. 

John turns and looks at her for a moment, not knowing how to start. 

“Er, Harry—,” John tries and Harry looks up at him. He immediately evades her gaze, and looks back at the sea instead. “You know, I—” 

He bites his lips. 

Harry slowly tilts her head and raises her eyebrows questioningly. 

John takes a deep breath. “We, er — could you just make, er, sure that you stay at the dune for a while tonight? You and Gemma?” 

“You want us to stay at the dune tonight?” Harry repeats. “We’re at the dune every night, John. Why shouldn’t we be tonight?” 

“Yeah, yeah! You’re right,” John says quickly. “Just — you know, I just wanted to make sure you don’t come back sort of… early.” 

Oh fucking hell, this is torture, he thinks, shifting his weight from one elbow to the other and rubbing his hand across his face to hide his blush. 

Harry sits up next to him and squints her eyes. After a moment, as she understands what John is actually asking, she starts to smile. 

“Okay, Johnny. Gemma and I will definitely stay at the campfire as long as possible so you and Sherlock have this place to yourselves,” Harry says, huffing a laugh. And then she leans in and whispers, “You know, it’s not like I haven’t heard you have sex with him before.” 

John groans and turns away, hiding his face with one hand. 

“Stop it, Harry,” he growls. “Stop it now.” 

“And as a back-up plan,” she adds with a hint of amusement, pointing her finger in the direction of the sparse forest, “I think there’s still Sherlock’s tent, isn’t there?” 

“Oh God, shut it, Harry,” he pleads. 

“Don’t worry, little brother,” Harry smirks and presses, to his utter mortification, a smacking kiss to his cheek. “Who are we to interfere.” 

John hides his face with both his hands. 

“Go away. Just go away.” 

“Never,” she laughs. Harry gently pinches him and tousles his hair. John tries to wriggle away from her, but he gives up, secretly grateful that she is the way she is, that’s she’s her, _Harry._ And that he can talk to her about things like this. 

— 

John has no idea how he manages to get through the endless afternoon hours, stretching into eternity like old chewing gum. Sherlock’s on edge, simultaneously bored and restless. He shoots John looks that send waves of heat and arousal pulsing through his body, and that make him casually turn over to lie on his belly. The fact that Sherlock leaves after an hour to have a shower doesn’t help at all, it just makes John think of his naked body under the warm spray of water. 

John’s so excited it hurts. By the time they finally, _finally_ discuss what to have for dinner, he’s thought about last night and fucking Sherlock so much he isn’t sure anymore what’s real and what he’s just fantasised. 

When Harry and Gemma head off to the shower house soon after, John drags himself to the shop to buy three cans of ravioli. He’s grateful for something to do to pass the time. But at the same time, he’s slightly annoyed, wishing they’d just be over with dinner, and Harry and Gemma would be gone. 

He’s just fetching the pot and the camping stove when Sherlock gets up from his spot in front of the tent. 

“Be right back,” Sherlock mumbles, and walks up the street and out of sight. John smiles as he watches him leave. He has no idea what Sherlock is up to. 

John is inside their tent, searching for his Swiss army knife to open the cans of ravioli, when Sherlock comes back, a bag from the campsite’s shop in his hand. 

“Hey,” John says, smiling. 

“I —” Sherlock starts, and then he bites his lips. He holds the white plastic bag with the campsite’s logo in his hand. Suddenly John understands that something about this bag or its contents is important. It must be important as fuck, actually, judging by the insecurity showing on Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock takes a deep breath, finally meets John’s eyes, and adds, “I bought condoms.” 

Sherlock blushes, and John doesn’t know what to say. He’s surprised although this is — hell, this is _Sherlock,_ and he shouldn’t be fucking surprised any more. He smiles, just as awkwardly as Sherlock, wishing he could be more relaxed about this. 

“I don‘t think we need them,” Sherlock says after a moment of silence. “But I also think that it makes you feel more at ease and safe, so here they are.” 

Sherlock’s voice is firmer now, and John relaxes a bit. Sherlock turns the bag upside down. Three packs of condoms fall on the tent floor between them, three different brands, almost comically colourful. There’s a new tube of lubricant as well. John shakes his head. He smiles, and still doesn’t fucking know what to say. 

“Condoms,” Sherlock states with a wave of his hand. “Plenty of them.” 

John’s heart wrenches at this. Of course he does feel more at ease using condoms, and of course he does feel safer. And of course he knows that all of this might be stupid, since the odds are fucking low that either of them is infected with HIV or something — Sherlock hasn’t had sex with anyone but him, and John‘s always used condoms with his girlfriends. But John was wondering how to bring it up, and now Sherlock just fucking solved it in the best possible way. 

“Yeah,” John says, and starts to grin at Sherlock. “Yeah, right.” 

Sherlock’s mouth twists into his weird, beautiful half-smile, blushing more, if anything. John puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and leans in to kiss him, saving him from his shyness. As Sherlock kisses back and John feels his tongue brushing against his own, his nervousness is outweighed by anticipation and desire. They’re going to do this. Later, when they’re on their own. Tonight. He grins against Sherlock’s lips. They fucking are. 

Ten minutes later, the girls are back. Gemma‘s wet hair is wrapped in a towel, and John notices that she has quite a tan as well after two weeks of sun-bathing and swimming. She’s barefoot, wearing one of Harry’s t-shirts and shorts. She looks happy; actually she’s absolutely radiating with joy, smiling at Harry as they talk. She’s beautiful, John thinks. He likes her a lot. But seeing her doesn’t evoke the desire he’d felt two weeks ago. His affection completely lacks the urgency that comes with wanting someone, John realises. He smiles. He’s bi, of course he notices a woman’s beauty. Of course he’s still attracted to women, generally. 

And then he looks at Sherlock, sitting next to him cross-legged with that insane grace of his. Sherlock, bent over his French newspaper. As he reads, he tosses his lighter a few inches up into the air, catching it again with long, elegant fingers. He’s already utterly lost in thought, probably not even realising what he’s doing with the lighter. He sure as hell doesn’t realise how beautiful he is, how much his mere presence steals the air from John’s lungs. His hair frames his face, curled even more than usual with the fading dampness from the shower. After another day spent outside, the freckles above his eyebrows have grown a hint darker than they were in the morning. His eyes are sparkling silvery-green when he looks up questioningly at John. 

John laughs, shaking his head ever so slightly. _Nothing, Sherlock. Just the usual. I’m in love with you._

John holds his gaze for a moment, until Sherlock starts to smile. For John it feels as if the fucking sun is going up after a long, dark night. 

“Oh great, you made ravioli! Thank _fuck,_ I’m starving,” Harry exclaims as she slumps down in the sand next to John, already taking a plastic plate and a fork. 

John tears his gaze away from Sherlock, who suddenly looks hungry as well. In a completely different way, though. 

Over dinner, John can barely talk to Harry, too afraid he’ll blush or stutter or both. Harry and Gemma tell them how they spent the day — chatting with Arnel at the shop just before noon, having ice cream with the German girls, who are leaving tomorrow morning. John hopes they don’t notice that Sherlock and he barely say a word. 

They eat quickly although John isn’t hungry, he never is when he’s nervous. He wonders if he should have some more wine than usual to fight the nervousness. But then he decides that having sex — very new sex, and this kind of sex at that — when he’s drunk, even if only a bit, might be not the best idea. As if drinking ever was. 

Sherlock pushes ravioli around his plate, smearing tomato sauce all over the plastic. John doesn’t know if he’s even taken a bite. 

Eventually, they’re finished. John didn’t have more than a few sips of wine, but he feels light-headed nonetheless. When Harry suggests that she and Gemma take care of the dishes, he manages to flash her a grateful grin. Grinning back at him, she blows him a kiss. He blushes, of course he does, and quickly looks the other way, hiding his smile. 

From the corner of his eye, John spots Sherlock get up. He looks at John, and suggests, “Let’s have a cigarette. At the bench.” 

Sherlock already has his new pack of _Gauloises bleues_ in his hand, as well as his Discman. They sit on the bench, Sherlock on the left, John on the right. The girls clatter with the dishes, putting them into the plastic box and then they walk up the street, their voices and their laughter fading as they leave. 

John and Sherlock look at the sea and the horizon for a while, at the sun that is about to set, bathing the restless waves in orange light. Eventually, Sherlock hands John one of his earbuds and switches his Discman on. The first song that plays is _Stop whispering_ by Radiohead. 

Sherlock takes a cigarette and turns to John, about to place it between John’s lips, as usual. But he hesitates, his hand in mid-air. He looks at John in a way that gives him goosebumps and makes his heart race. Sherlock’s gaze trails down to his lips. John keeps very still, while the music plays through the headphones, while Sherlock looks at him with those deep, dark eyes. 

Down at the beach, the ocean washes her waves against the sandy strip of land. This beach has become theirs during the last two weeks, they have claimed and conquered it, just like they’ve claimed the sea. She has allowed them to explore her and to discover some of the secrets she holds in her depths. 

As inevitably as the evening waves rolling in Sherlock now leans in to John. It’s just a fraction, not even an inch, but it’s enough to make John tilt his head and let his lips slip open, ready to meet Sherlock’s. John doesn’t waste a single thought on who might be able to see them. 

The wind tousles Sherlock’s curls, and the sun makes his skin gleam in the fucking golden light of sunset. 

But then Sherlock stops, and for one second, his eyes flicker to the campsite behind John. 

John watches Sherlock fight his desire to kiss him, and it almost makes him scream with how much he craves to feel those lips on his. Then Sherlock shifts back, just a bit, but their eyes meet again. Slowly, he puts the cigarette between John’s lips. 

While Sherlock lights the cigarette, he shields John’s face more than necessary from the wind from the sea, resting his hand against John’s cheek. The raspy crackle of the lighter breaks the silence. John inhales, watching Sherlock’s lips in the flickering light of the flame. The smoke tastes like Sherlock. 

John drags once more. Then Sherlock takes the cigarette from his lips, brushing his fingertips across them, as if he wanted to make up for the kiss that didn’t happen. John vows to himself that he will kiss Sherlock so fucking much later on — once the girls have left, once he sleeps with him. 

Sherlock pulls on the cigarette, looking at John. He’s smiling with the cigarette between his lips in a way that makes John wonder if Sherlock can read his mind. 

The song ends and a new one begins, The Cure now. Even before the the lyrics begin, John recognises the song, _From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea._

John shakes his head, still smiling, wondering if it was written for them alone. He looks at the ocean at their feet. It isn’t green, like the sea at an English coast on an autumn day, when the skies are grey with clouds, and the air is a cool, wet gust of wind. Here, the Atlantic is dark blue, aquamarine even, glittering in the sun like a gem, the very essence of summer. But it doesn’t matter, none of it, it’s the fucking sea. It’s theirs. 

They share the cigarette, sitting close. John realises that if they didn’t smoke, if they didn’t have this constant contact of handing the cigarette back and forth every few moments, he’d hold Sherlock’s hand. And so he puts the cigarette into his right hand, and threads the fingers of his left between Sherlock’s. It’s still exciting, but it’s more than that. It’s the way it should be. Sherlock glances at him and after a moment, one corner of his mouth turns up in a proud smile. 

The song plays on, it’s a long one, and the ending is sadder and more dramatic than John remembers. When the last chords have finally faded, Harry and Gemma are back, already getting ready to go to the campfire. Sherlock switches off the Discman, but the girls don’t even stop as they pass them by. 

“See you tomorrow, boys,” Harry calls as she jogs lightly down the path to the beach, Gemma in tow. John watches his sister, the wind and the sunlight caught in her short hair, making it shine like gold. 

Sherlock briefly squeezes his hand. John looks at their intertwined fingers, lying loosely on his thigh, at Sherlock’s larger hand and his smaller one. He takes a deep breath. 

Sherlock bends down to grind the cigarette in the sand, and then he straightens and just sits there, next to John, waiting, holding his hand. 

The girls are walking along the beach towards the dune, already out of earshot, and they’ll be out of sight in a minute. 

John’s heart starts to beat faster. 

Now? 

Sherlock strokes his thumb across John’s fingers. It’s a light and even motion. John nearly misses the tension lingering beneath. 

John lets go of Sherlock’s hand to remove the tiny speaker from his ear, and once he’s given it back to Sherlock, he takes his hand again. It feels important to do this, to keep touching him. He must be as nervous as John is. 

Although the music has stopped, John can still hear the last song in his mind. 

_Every time we do this, I fall for you,_ John thinks, internally singing along with the music. 

Sherlock gets up from the bench, and John swallows against his wildly beating heart. 

Now. 

The sky is turning dark behind the campsite, like a cloth soaking up ink, like watercolours spreading on a sheet of paper. John doesn’t even look if there’s anyone around who might see them. He just lets Sherlock hold his hand. He lets him take him to their tent, up on their hill, overlooking the ocean that caresses the beach in long, wet strokes, never stopping, never ceasing. 

_Wave after wave after wave,_ John thinks, his mind replaying the song’s lyrics, _It’s all for you._

Once John has crawled into the tent, he tries to be practical, just to shake off his nervousness. He takes a brief look around, checking where Sherlock put the condoms so he’ll find them when it gets darker. He glances at Sherlock, who’s tentatively taking off his t-shirt. It’s dim inside the tent, and John’s eyes need some time to get used to it. He clears his throat, but then he doesn’t know what to say, and just pulls his shirt over his head as well. 

They move slowly, somewhat carefully, not hurrying. All of this feels so fucking momentous that John’s already trying to think of a joke he could crack, just to ease the tension. 

Sherlock exhales shakily, and a stupid joke feels out of place. 

“I’m nervous,” Sherlock admits, looking up and meeting John’s eyes in the blue half-light of the tent. He’s stopped undressing, and he sits on the tent floor in his cropped jeans, worn-out, faded and still beautiful. Every single crease has become so familiar to John that he could follow them with his finger on the soft fabric without even opening his eyes. 

Suddenly John’s throat is dry. He has to swallow twice before he can speak. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, cursing himself for his lack of eloquence, “Yeah, me too.” 

And since John can’t find any words to explain all the things he feels, he stretches out his hand and runs his fingers along Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck to his naked chest. 

Sherlock shifts closer and kisses John, and for a second it’s all clumsy and new, like a first kiss all over again. But there’s the taste of Sherlock, the scent of his skin and his hair, the way his body moves. There’s the sound of his breaths, the low humming deep in his throat. And with that everything starts to fall into place until their touches feel so well-known and intimate to John that he aches. 

A fraction of this newness remains, though, making John’s hands tremble as he undresses Sherlock. At the sight of his naked body and his hard cock, John burns up with the need to touch him, but he forces himself to take off his own clothes first. He isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to stop touching him once he starts. 

Sherlock shoves the sleeping bags to the side and lies down. John wants to get on top of him, straddle him and kiss him, watch their naked bodies together. He wants to let their cocks touch, maybe take them both into his hand. He wants to do something they’re used to by now, to start from familiar territory. Maybe this will take the edge off his nervousness. 

But Sherlock opens his legs, allowing John between them. John stops, understanding just how fucking serious Sherlock is about this. He looks at him in the fading light of dusk, and then he kneels between Sherlock’s long legs. 

Sherlock’s eyes are clear and deep, reminding John of his second day here, of the afternoon when he was snorkeling, just a few hours before Sherlock walked past his tent for the first time. His eyes make John think of the sea that day. How he could see through yards and yards of blue-green water, discovering a whole new world, infinitely fascinating. Sherlock looks open again, he lets John see everything, lets him have him completely. 

It’s getting darker outside the tent and in a few minutes’ time, they won’t be able to see a fucking thing. John stretches and leans across Sherlock’s body until he can reach his backpack. He searches for his torch with one hand. He finds it and switches it on, then shoves it into the next corner of their tent. He makes sure it faces outwards, so they don’t cast any tell-tale shadows against the tent’s fabric. The torch shines against the blue polyester, bathing them in a low indirect light. It’s enough to light Sherlock’s face properly, to see the look in his eyes and read the language of his body. It’s enough to see that the expression in his eyes hasn’t changed a bit. 

The next moment, Sherlock starts to pull John down to him, so fucking strong when he wants to be. John’s chest touches Sherlock’s as they breathe, and Sherlock holds him, kissing him. John loves his strength and determination as much as he loves it when Sherlock goes pliant and tender under his touch. 

They kiss, deeply and passionately, and this kiss carries everything they want to do. They’re not making out, they’re not messing around. They’re going to do this. 

Sherlock takes John’s hand and guides him down his body. He lets John brush his fingers across his cock, hard and hot and fucking beautiful. He takes him further, exhaling a moan as they go past his balls. And then Sherlock lets go of John’s hand, he can’t reach down any further than this without sitting up and bending. 

John looks at Sherlock, at his eyes shining with an emotion, a clarity that shatters John’s soul in a strange, beautiful way. No-one has ever looked at John like this. For a moment John stills, soaking up this look, trying to memorise it. He’ll need to revisit it on all the days he’ll be alone, on all the days he’ll be missing Sherlock. 

But then Sherlock moves, lifting his hips and pressing them against John’s hand that’s still resting on his perineum. John takes the hint and trails his fingers further down, feeling Sherlock spread his legs a little wider under him. He slowly grazes his fingertips across Sherlock’s hot, damp skin, until he finds it, the furl of delicate, tender skin and tight muscle underneath. John’s heart beats so loud Sherlock must be able to hear it. 

John rubs his fingers against Sherlock’s anus, a few small, light circles. Sherlock sucks in a breath, and John’s cock bobs at the sound. He does it again, pressing a little harder now. He almost pushes his index finger against the tissue when he suddenly remembers that, fuck, Christ, they need lube. How the hell could he forget? 

“Sorry, I — hold on a sec,” John whispers, not even trying to explain. He draws back his hand and grabs the plastic bag with the condoms. It rustles loudly in the silence of their tent. He fumbles with the packaging, hurrying — and, fuck, now it really feels like a bloody first time, nervous and hasty and making mistakes and all. He huffs an annoyed breath. 

Finally John manages to pour some lube on his finger, dripping one big dollop onto Sherlock’s belly. The thought of smearing it across Sherlock’s body flashes across John’s mind, of digging his fingers into his skin, hearing Sherlock whimper with surprise and arousal. 

God, how he wants him. 

John draws a shaky breath, briefly looking at Sherlock, his eyes half-closed and hazy, but still holding his breath with tension. John slips his hand back between Sherlock’s legs, past his dark pubic hair and his hard cock, behind his balls, _there._ Sherlock shivers as John touches his anus, as he goes back to drawing gentle circles on the sensitive skin. 

John can’t wait a single fucking second longer. He slowly pushes, pushes, and his finger slips inside while he silently prays he isn’t going too fast. Both the heat and the tightness of Sherlock’s body nearly take his breath away. 

Sherlock leans into the touch, his legs falling open. John stills, giving Sherlock a moment to get used to the sensation. Then he starts to move his finger inside him, carefully going further and sliding back a bit, until Sherlock’s breaths turn shallow and fast. 

“More,”Sherlock breathes. 

John pulls his finger out and coats his middle finger with lube. He shifts down a bit, he wants to look, he wants to see fucking everything. His own fingers touching Sherlock’s entrance, slick pink skin, gently pushing against the centre of his anus that, after a moment, relents and lets his fingers slip inside. 

_Oh my fucking God._

John pushes further, just to see if he can do it, if Sherlock can take it, and he can, because he groans in reply, slowly rocking his hips against John’s hand. John’s really fucking surprised how quickly and how well it works, how aroused Sherlock is, and how much this arouses him. He can’t even think of doing this with his cock without being afraid of losing control. 

Sherlock starts to roll his hips, licking and biting his lips, exhaling rough, vocal sighs. And he’s looking at John with a desperate look in his eyes, pure want. 

“John?” Sherlock groans. John can’t say anything, not when Sherlock sounds like this. 

“John?” Sherlock repeats, and now, John manages a small, helpless nod. Sherlock sees it and sighs, “Do it.” 

Nervousness is holding John’s heart and his whole body hostage, even worse than it has been all day. It’s going to happen now. 

_Now._

John holds Sherlock’s gaze while he slowly pulls his fingers out and sits back on his heels. Sherlock props himself up on his elbows. His skin is flushed with need, his cock leaking beads of precome. John wants to kiss it away, he wants to suck Sherlock until he explodes in his mouth. And he wants to fuck him. 

With slippery, unsteady fingers John opens a pack of condoms, gracelessly tearing the card apart. He takes one out, the silver foil reflecting the light of the torch for a second. 

“Let me,” Sherlock says hoarsely. 

John hands it to him and watches Sherlock rip it open and take out the condom. John hisses with need when Sherlock places it over the head of his cock. Sherlock’s beautiful fingers move along his cock, rolling the latex down the shaft. Sherlock takes the lube and pours the watery liquid onto his fingers, spreading it on John’s cock. 

Once Sherlock is finished, he looks at John, he wants to say something, but he can’t seem to find the words. 

“I’ll—,” John starts. His voice is gone, it takes him a few heartbeats until he can carry on. “I’ll make sure you’re fine, Sherlock.” 

He leans in to kiss Sherlock, a wordless reassurance that, yes, they’re doing this, together, now. Sherlock kisses back, but it’s a fast kiss, restless and impatient. 

John sits a little straighter, his cock in his hand, placing it against Sherlock’s entrance. It’s a fucking lot more than two fingers. For a second he’s so nervous he wants to call the whole thing off. 

But this is it. The moment John’s been thinking about all day. 

He thought this would be so easy, and so hot. He thought this would be his wildest dreams come true. 

This is so much more. 

John pushes. One part of his brain is screaming with arousal, because he craves to have his cock touched, he needs friction and motion. But right now, all he cares about is getting this right. 

He has to push harder than he’d like, but finally, he can feel the muscle yield, and the whole head of John’s cock breaches Sherlock’s body. John holds his breath. _Fucking hell._ This is fucking overwhelming. 

John hears himself panting, just like Sherlock is. He doesn’t move for a moment, but looks at Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing through his open mouth. John spots tiny beads of sweat above his eyebrows. 

“Okay?” John asks. 

Sherlock nods quickly. John keeps looking at him, trying to determine when he’s ready. John can’t tell, so he stays like that, just inside him, for as long as he can. 

Eventually Sherlock exhales, and nods again. John takes it as a _go,_ and pushes in a bit further. 

John’s mind is being wiped blank. He doesn’t have any words inside him anymore, he just feels how he enters Sherlock’s body. It’s like the sea swallowing him, waves surging over his head. Silence spreads inside him, there’s only the sound of their panted breaths, making his ears buzz, and the sensation of being inside Sherlock. 

John pushes in as slowly as he possibly can. Even his fingertips prickle with need. 

He looks at Sherlock, desperate to see his reaction, and he can only guess what the look in Sherlock’s eyes will be like. He wants to share his own fucking joy with him, see it reflected in Sherlock’s gaze. But Sherlock’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s biting his lips. He’s tense, and John stops, waiting for a ragged breath, for a smile to crook his red, wet lips. 

John waits for interminable moments, but Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes, he doesn’t smile at him. Eventually, fighting his own arousal, John draws back again. 

Sherlock never relaxes. Instead John feels him tense still further. Sherlock’s lips turn pale where he bites them, and John can see that he isn’t okay, he’s not okay at all. John pulls back some more, slowly, and Sherlock breathes, “Out.” 

John complies, but Sherlock says it again, an edge of urgency shaking his voice, “Out…!” 

John pulls out, holding the condom at the base of his cock. Sherlock hisses, and the sound of it alarms John. It sounds pained. John rubs his hand across his face, pushing whatever is left of his desire and his need to come aside. Something’s gone wrong. 

Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, less fiercely though. His cock has gone soft, and now he lifts his hand to his face. It looks a fucking lot like hiding. 

“Hey,” John says, and suddenly he feels idiotic about his still too-quick breathing and his slowly subsiding arousal. He lies down next to Sherlock, resting his hand on his arm. He wishes he could tell if Sherlock wants to be touched right now. 

“What happened?” John asks. “Shit, did I hurt you?” 

At first, Sherlock doesn’t react. Then his chest heaves with two, three, four deep breaths. 

“It… hurt. But I don’t think you’ve done something wrong.” He’s out of breath as well. “You were very careful. ’T just hurt. I don’t know. Never done this before, have I.” 

Sherlock pulls his hand back a fraction. He blinks, and John finds shame lurking in the darkness of his eyes. 

Now John moves closer and dares to hold him, as gently as he can. 

“Hey,” John whispers into Sherlock’s damp curls. “Hey, Sherlock. That’s okay. That’s just how it is with — sex.” He rests his nose in Sherlock’s hair; it’s warm and sweaty. He wants to be as close to him as he can, and he wants to drive the darkness in Sherlock’s eyes away. He kisses the spot where he thinks Sherlock’s ear might be, and whispers, “Doesn’t always work at the first try.” 

John holds him, and eventually, Sherlock shifts a little closer. 

“Are you okay now? Does it still hurt?” John asks. 

“No, it’s better,” Sherlock whispers, and after a moment, he adds, “What was that?” 

“Maybe we were just too quick. Should’ve given you more time,” John says, trying to make sure Sherlock won’t fucking blame himself, trying to take the pressure off. “We don’t have to do that, you know?” 

Sherlock is silent, and John watches him looking at the tent’s ceiling above them. “I want to, though,” Sherlock says. His voice is firmer now, and John guesses there’s no point arguing with him about this. 

“We’ll try some other time,” John replies. He brushes a curl from Sherlock’s temple and kisses him. His skin tastes salty. 

John considers telling Sherlock that he loves him. _I love you, Sherlock,_ he thinks, and he can almost hear the words said out loud in the tent in his own voice. He can almost feel his vocal chords vibrating with their weight. But he isn’t sure if that’s what Sherlock needs to hear right now, if he’d think that John was just saying it out of pity or to comfort him or something. So John pushes the words away from the forefront of his mind, and from his lips. When he looks at Sherlock, he finds him unhappy, pressing his lips together the way he always does when he’s being hard on himself. 

And then John remembers something he has read about medical examinations or treatments. When a patient has to undergo an unpleasant or painful treatment, it has proved to be helpful to let the procedure end with a positive experience. The patient will remember it in a less negative way. John narrows his eyes. Maybe it’s important that this, now, ends in a good way, too. 

John lies next to Sherlock for another moment. He holds him, but Sherlock isn’t as close to him as he usually is; he’s keeping his distance. As if he’s not allowing himself to be close to John. 

John doesn’t know if shame is the reason for this, or if Sherlock is angry at himself and punishing himself this way. Whatever it is, it has to end. John doesn’t want him to remember this first time like this. 

Carefully, John props himself up and crawls down, until he’s facing Sherlock’s groin. His cock is soft, and for the first time, John looks at it from close-up when Sherlock’s not hard. He likes the way it looks, he likes its shape, the colour of the skin. He spots fine purple blood vessels, takes in the dark auburn hairs above his cock. He strokes him with two fingers, not to arouse him. Just to touch him. 

Sherlock’s breathing is a low sound in the dim light inside the tent, getting louder and ebbing away every few moments, steadily. It’s full of tension, full of questions. 

John shifts closer and rests his head on Sherlock’s hip. He takes his soft, perfect cock into his hand. 

“No, don’t, John, you don’t have to—” Sherlock tries to interrupt him. 

“Let me. Okay?” John whispers back. 

These are the last words they speak that night. Sherlock doesn’t say a thing when John takes his cock into his mouth. Sherlock just holds his breath. 

John tastes him, the lingering remnants of precome, he tastes skin and a hint of soap, and Sherlock. He runs his tongue across the head, across the slit, where the salty taste intensifies. He licks against his foreskin, fine and tender and tough. It feels beautiful. He fucking loves it, he should have done this much earlier. 

It feels like a long moment until Sherlock finally breathes again. His first gasp of breath shakes with emotion, and the exhale that follows is a sigh, long, taking all the tension with it. John can tell as he relaxes, how his body melts into the sleeping mat. He places a hand on John’s shoulder, the one where he’d sucked the love bite into the skin this morning. 

Long minutes pass, and John sucks him with his eyes closed. He feels Sherlock getting hard. He feels with his lips and tongue how his cock gets bigger, and how Sherlock allows himself to feel pleasure, and to be loved. 

They’re quiet. There are voiceless sighs and breaths shivering with sensation. At some point, Sherlock hesitantly reaches out his hand for John’s, takes it, and places it on his balls. John starts to caress them; he never lets go and vows never to forget to do this when he sucks him in the future. 

Sherlock is quiet when he comes, except for one low, wondering groan. 

John swallows all his come, and he stays there, his head resting on Sherlock’s hip again. He keeps him in his mouth until he’s soft again. 

Eventually, John lets go, and shifts upwards, until he’s next to Sherlock again. He pulls the sleeping bag up to cover them both and when he lies down, Sherlock is warm and relaxed, wrapping his arms around John. Sherlock falls asleep holding him. 

John wakes again, later. He needs to piss, and so he gets up, finds a t-shirt and a pair of shorts to put on. He doesn’t even care if they’re his or Sherlock’s. He walks to the shower house through the cool night air, carrying the scent of pine and salt. He relieves his bladder, drinks from the tap, and returns to their tent. 

Everything’s silent, and everything’s dark, except for their tent. He’d left the torch switched on while he went to the shower house. It’s like a lighthouse in the dark of the night, illuminated with a faint tone of blue. 

John stands in the sand for a few moments between his bench and their tent. He looks out at the sea that never rests, that’s always there, the waves frothing on the sand. He turns, glancing at his tent where Sherlock sleeps. He never would have thought that coming back home to someone could feel so good. 

Once he’s inside the tent, he switches off the light and undresses. When he slips back into the sleeping bag, threading his legs between Sherlock’s, he hears the song in his mind again. The one they listened to earlier, outside on the bench, watching the sunset. 

_As long as I know that you know_  
_That I belong_  
_Right here with you_  
_Right here with you_  
_And so we watch the sun come up_  
_From the edge of the deep green sea_

I belong right here with you, Sherlock, he thinks. Sherlock is asleep in his arms, resting his head heavily against John’s chest. The sound of his calm, even breathing is the most reassuring sound John has ever heard. It’s more beautiful than the wind in the pines, more beautiful than the waves at the beach he just watched. 

_We'll be here forever,_ Sherlock.  
_And we'll never say goodbye._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cure. [From The Edge of the Green Sea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=olNQWNrKxn8).  
>   
> I was searching for a song John and Sherlock could listen to on this day, and I asked my amazing @ennisnovember. This is the song she told me, and it's perfect. I know that many of you might not like The Cure as much as I do, music is always something that mostly works when you're into that special kind of music. It works for me, however, and captures everything so sadly, and perfectly. Thanks, ennis. <3
> 
> \---
> 
> Sorry for the long wait for this chapter - real life happened, but every night I sit down and write a bit, and it's one of the things that never fail to make me happy. :) I hope you're all doing fine with respect to the mess happening on tumblr these days. I'm not willing to be disencouraged and happily proceed writing explicit gay fic. <3


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early Christmas present to all of you who celebrate Christmas. Have a lovely time, everybody. <3

“John.” 

Sherlock’s voice sounds hoarse, low and intimate and so fucking close to John’s ear that he can feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his neck. 

Sherlock’s panting. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s panting. 

John opens his eyes, just a fraction. It’s too fucking early, and too fucking bright. He turns his head to Sherlock. 

_God, he looks breathtaking,_ John thinks. He takes in one thing after the other about Sherlock; his heated cheeks, his plush lips and his hair that’s even more disheveled than usual, as if he’d spent half the night raking his fingers through it. Sherlock’s body is pliant and warm, a little sweaty. John can feel Sherlock’s cock pressed against his thigh, hard and leaking. 

John stretches, and runs his fingers across Sherlock’s shakily heaving chest, across his nipples, hard and small and dark. When Sherlock leans in to kiss John’s neck, John spots the open bottle of lube next to the tangle of sleeping bags. He lifts his head to have a closer look. 

“What—,” John tries, voice cracking after hours of silence. Then he sees Sherlock’s right hand, his index and middle finger glistening with moisture, and suddenly he can’t finish his question. Christ, he can’t have… can he? 

John feels heat rise in his body. 

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock breathes. “Fuck me now.” 

John sucks in a breath. Sherlock’s voice and his words go straight to his cock. John’s desire is kickstarted like a racing car, engine howling under the bonnet. Sherlock is already turning onto his back, starting to pull John on top of him. He takes John’s cock in his hands, working it, but it doesn’t need any of that. John’s hard within seconds, and he _wants._

“You sure? Are you going to be okay?” John tries, reason battling against desire. He rubs a hand across his face, as if to wipe the last remnants of sleep away like a cobweb. 

“Do it, John, just fucking do it.” 

John looks at Sherlock. There’s no pleading in Sherlock’s eyes, no sign of doubt. There’s fucking courage, there’s endless desire, and there’s this dangerous determination. It’s the same determination that made him dive into the inky sea at night, and that probably made him swallow a small purple pill of extasy not even a week ago. 

How the fuck could John possibly resist him. He starts to dig frantically through the clutter of things next to their sleeping mats — discarded clothes, half-empty water bottles, Sherlock’s cigarettes, all dusted with fine eggshell-white sand — until he finds the pack of condoms he opened last night. He takes one out, and sits up. 

This time it’s John who does this, tearing the silvery foil of the condom, Sherlock working John’s cock so perfectly that John has to close his eyes in a weak attempt to focus. Sherlock only stops when John places the condom on the tip of his cock and rolls it down. He reaches for the lube and smears it all across John’s cock, loads of it, and now it’s John who’s fucking panting. 

John still doesn’t really feel awake; all of this is happening so quickly that it feels almost surreal. When he kneels down between Sherlock’s spread legs he can see that Sherlock’s entrance is slick and wet. 

_Oh my God, you did that when I was sleeping,_ John wants to say, but something primal and untamed and fucking desperate has been stirred in him, and he can’t speak. He can’t say a single word. 

John places the head of his cock against Sherlock’s anus and then looks at him. Sherlock meets John’s gaze and starts to roll his hips, pushing against John’s cock. 

“Come on,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be fine.” His voice is pure temptation, rough and needy, rumbling deep. 

John leans down to kiss him briefly, just messily smearing his lips against Sherlock’s for a moment. It’s enough time for Sherlock to kiss back, to open his lips and to thrust his tongue into John’s mouth once, twice — then he lets go of him. 

John straightens. He starts to push, slowly, and this time, it doesn’t take much until the head of his cock slips inside Sherlock. 

_Oh my fucking God._

The sensation makes John groan, it makes him breathe harder and faster, desperately trying to keep up with his heart that’s suddenly beating so fiercely inside his chest. 

Sherlock draws a long, loud breath. He squints his eyes in concentration, but he keeps looking at John, and John waits. He’ll wait forever, if necessary. 

After a moment of adjusting, Sherlock pants, “Okay. More.” 

John pushes in a little further, and waits again. It’s all he can do, wait until Sherlock tells him to go on. John would never say how fucking good it feels right now, how much he wants this, and how much it takes him to just fucking _wait._ Sherlock would probably make him go on if he knew, not caring about his own discomfort. 

But Sherlock’s face isn’t displaying any of the tension it had shown last night, he’s still pliant and — hungry. 

“More,” Sherlock gasps again, “and don’t — don’t stop. Just go—,” he forces the words out against a shudder running through his body, “just go on, slowly.” 

The last words are a whisper, a plea, pitched higher and desperate. 

John pushes in as slowly and as carefully as he can, all the way, the whole length of his cock. 

And then he’s inside Sherlock, completely, as far as it gets. They look at each other. John feels Sherlock so intensely, and he can only imagine what it must be like for him. They’re breathing in unison, and John’s sure that even their hearts are beating at exactly the same time, in the same rhythm. They’re so fucking close to each other. 

Sherlock moves the tiniest bit, tilting his hips just a fraction, but it’s enough to make John gasp. 

“Go on,” Sherlock pants, not lifting his gaze from him. He sounds as if he wants to say something else, but this isn’t the time for words, this isn’t the time to speak. And John can read it in his eyes anyway. 

_Go on, John. I want you. Fucking take me. Take me, do it, now._

John moves, a slow, shaky roll of his hips, and Sherlock clutches the towel underneath him. When he catches John’s alarmed gaze, he nods, and breathes, “M’okay. Don’t stop.” 

John moves again, and again, and Sherlock gradually relaxes. The muscles on his arms and stomach ease up, his face becomes softer and the tension in his body dissolves. He starts to take up John’s movements with his own body, pushing his hips gently against John’s. It makes John gasp and it takes all the control he can muster to keep going slowly — in, and out, and in, and out. 

John’s grateful for the condom, because it’s the only thing that keeps him from coming right fucking now. He’s never as sensitive with a condom as he is without. He’d make a bloody fool of himself if he felt Sherlock’s body without the thin layer of latex between them. 

The more Sherlock relaxes, the more John dares to move a little less carefully, the more he dares to focus on the sensation. He chokes with the lack of words to describe what he’s feeling, even if only in his mind. 

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter as he rolls his hips against John’s cock, showing him how fast he wants him to go. John follows his lead, learning just how Sherlock needs it. 

Sherlock is breathing through his open mouth now, licking his lips after a few rough gasps. It’s such a short moment, not even a full second, but John watches the wet, pink tip of tongue dart across his full lower lip. And although John is fucking him, right now, although he’s _inside_ him, it’s this small, unplanned gesture that feels so irrationally intimate to him that he aches. He runs his left hand over Sherlock’s chest, caressing him; he brushes it across his soft, wet lips. Sherlock smiles at him, open-mouthed. 

Once the caution Sherlock’s body had held is gone, John slowly starts to _fuck_ him, with low smacking noises of damp skin on damp skin. He thrusts, still carefully, but he feels himself getting impatient. He can’t wait to start chasing pleasure, driven by the need to find out where this will take them. 

But Sherlock closes his eyes with a long sigh, his head sinking back on the sleeping mat. John slows. He watches how Sherlock relaxes and takes his thrusts, his whole body moving with their impact. Sherlock takes them, every single thrust, every roll of John’s hips. He’s taking whatever John is giving him and he’s fucking devouring it, as if right now, nothing else in the world even exists but _this,_ them, having sex. The sight of Sherlock like this makes John’s breath stutter in wonder. 

John was kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, but now, he goes down. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, he threads his fingers into his curls and kisses him, just fucking feeling him, with his hands, with his lips. Tasting him with his tongue, slowly thrusting into his body. John feels him with every inch of his skin, the heat of Sherlock’s body, the dampness where they touch. He just feels him and he allows him to take his breath away entirely. 

Sex has never felt like this. 

They move like this longer than John would have thought possible. They move perfectly in sync, as if their bodies understood each other on a deeper level than words can ever reach. They’re floating, ebbing off and surging again, rising higher and higher. John can’t tell for how long, time has become irrelevant, completely superfluous. 

Eventually Sherlock tilts his hips until John’s cock strokes his prostate, and Sherlock melts into gasps and sighs and sobs beneath John, and it feels better than John ever would have imagined. 

Sherlock’s so fucking beautiful like this. John can see the lust in his face, much more intense now than it was when he fingered him. John groans. He could come just from watching Sherlock. 

Sherlock pushes his hips harder against John’s, and John thrusts faster. He can see that Sherlock’s getting close. Panting, Sherlock rakes a hand into his damp curls, he even pulls them, while his other hand grazes across John’s back. His short fingernails are digging so hard into his skin that they must be leaving marks. John can’t help but moan. It’s good, fuck, it’s so damn good. He’s nearly losing himself in the sensation. 

Now John is close as well, too close, _too fucking close._

A panicky _Oh shit, shit, shit!_ flashes across John’s mind as the dams inside him feel about to burst, as he loses control of his arousal. 

_Christ, fuck, isn’t he supposed to come first? I shouldn’t be coming right now, I should be making sure he—_

But he can’t stop. For all his doubts he keeps rushing towards bliss, towards breathless, wondrous sensation. He has no idea how to stop it, or even slow it down. 

He thrusts and thrusts and _thrusts_ into Sherlock’s body. A sob wrenches itself from John’s chest, a sound of pure, desperate joy. 

He can’t stop. 

His body explodes into release, it shatters into countless sensations of rapture. It’s the fucking essence of satisfaction, of sweaty, messy carnal love. It’s the most fulfilling thing he’s ever experienced, and for a few trembling, fleeting, silent moments, he and Sherlock and the whole fucking universe are in perfect equilibrium. 

Sherlock gasps, looking at him with hazy, glittering eyes, brightly silver in the clear light of morning. Sherlock must feel how John is coming inside his body. Sherlock groans vocally, loud enough that the whole fucking campsite can hear them. 

T _his_ is what John thought sex would be like. 

It’s _this_ that he missed when he first slept with his girlfriend a year and a half ago. It’s fucking this _._

Shivers are still running through the whole of John’s body as he kisses Sherlock, tasting his hoarse moans on his tongue. Sherlock kisses back, open-mouthed and so far gone, so needy. 

John sits up, his limbs heavy with bliss. His hands are tickling, he’s breathing too hard, too much. The mere act of dragging himself into an upright position is almost too much to handle. But he wants Sherlock to come now. John knows he’s nearly there, but Sherlock has to be able to touch his cock. 

As soon as there’s enough space between them, Sherlock shoves his hand down between his legs and wraps his fingers around his erection. He starts to get himself off, hard and rough and recklessly, and with John’s cock still buried inside him. 

Not even ten seconds later, Sherlock comes with a low cry of satisfaction. He comes for fucking ages, his body convulsing with an intensity John has never seen before. 

_How is he so beautiful,_ John wonders as he keeps watching Sherlock. _How is it possible that a human being can be this beautiful._

It takes a long time until Sherlock’s shivers subside, but finally, out of breath, he pulls John closer until he lies on his body, wet with come and shining with sweat. John drapes his arms around him, nestling his hand behind Sherlock’s neck and holding him as close as he can. He rests his lips against the nearest patch of Sherlock’s skin. It’s the crook of his neck; an intimate spot, a place no one ever touches, warm with life against John’s lips. 

John dissolves into happiness. 

They lie there for a long time. Their breathing slows, eventually. Maybe they even doze off for a few moments. A seagull cries up in the air above the tent; another one, a heartbeat later. Almost dreaming, John pictures them gliding through the deep blue sky, endless until the air gets thinner and finally fades into space. The shadow of one seagull darts swiftly across their tent, darkening the bright morning sunshine on the fabric for a split second. 

At some point, John slips out. He takes the condom and crumples it into a handkerchief. Without saying a word, he hands Sherlock a towel, and Sherlock lifts his hips to clean himself, wincing slightly. 

“You’re alright?” John whispers. 

“’Course,” Sherlock whispers back. 

They slip back into their former position, John lying on top of Sherlock, his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, holding each other. They just lie there, tracing their fingertips across each other’s faces, shoulders, hair. The sweat dries on their skin, cooling them as it evaporates. 

John has never felt this calm, this happy. Nothing in his whole fucking life has ever felt so fundamentally right, except for the morning when he first kissed Sherlock. Was it really just a few days ago? And just now he fucked him for the first time. 

The feeling of these holidays is so beautiful, so monumental that John can’t think of any words to capture it. 

John watches Sherlock from so close, the pattern of freckles and moles on his skin, the ginger stubble on his jaw. He strokes a thumb across it; it’s raspy and soft at the same time. He closes his eyes, trying to absorb what they just did. 

Having sex with Sherlock like that, Christ, _fucking_ him — it’s so bloody huge, even now that it’s happened, now that it’s over. Over for now, just for this time. He’d kill to do it again. 

John opens his eyes, straightening slightly. He needs to talk for a bit, to hear Sherlock’s voice, connect to him again, now that they’ve done this. 

“When did you know you’re gay?” John whispers. He’s wanted to know for ages. 

Sherlock slowly opens his eyes, just enough that his glittering pupils can focus on John. He looks dazed and blissed-out, like perfect, calm happiness, silently joyful with everything they’ve done and felt. 

“Forever,” Sherlock replies. His voice is a low rasp in the silence of the tent, and it makes John fucking proud. Sherlock’s gasps, his groans and low cries still echoing in John’s mind. 

“Thirteen. I was thirteen when I understood what it actually meant,” Sherlock adds. 

John is surprised that he elaborates on this, he usually shares so little about himself. Suddenly it seems to John that Sherlock chooses to show him things rather than tell him. John squints his eyes at the thought, but Sherlock’s still speaking. 

“I never did… friends. Never cared about that. And I never liked anyone enough to fall in love. Or even to have a crush.” For a split second a smile flickers across Sherlock’s lips, and he says, “Kurt Cobain was later, if that counts.” 

John, too, smiles. 

“But I knew that if I’d ever be in love, it would be with a man.” 

Sherlock looks at John, with that open, unguarded expression in his eyes, as if he’s waiting to hear if there’s more John wants to know. As if he’s waiting for John to understand. 

It takes John a whole minute until it dawns on him that — Christ, did Sherlock just tell him he’s in love with him? 

John can’t ask Sherlock if that’s really what he meant, he can’t even look at him. Suddenly he’s is shaky with nervousness, a blush heating his cheeks. Warmth fills his heart, his belly, every cell of his body, like rays of sunshine falling through the smallest crack, the tiniest gap, lighting everything that’s lying in darkness on the inside. 

When he finally glances at Sherlock, he finds him biting his lips, and so John just brushes a kiss against his shoulder. He kisses Sherlock again, on the same spot, and stays there for a few moments, his lips resting against his skin. He feels Sherlock exhale a long, trembling breath. He wraps his arm around John, holding him tight. 

_I hope he understands,_ John thinks. _I hope he understands that I’m in love with him, too. More than that._

Time stretches into a small, perfect bubble of eternity, containing just them, naked in each other’s arms. 

“Were you… scared? When you realised?” John asks, as their shared silence becomes too momentous and talking starts to feel easier again. 

“No. It’s just a part of me, it’s — it’s who I am,” Sherlock says, closing his eyes for a moment. John can’t tell if it’s a long blink or if Sherlock’s retreating to the shelter of his own mind, to his memories for the duration of a heartbeat. 

“Although I was intimidated once I understood all the implications of homosexuality, societal prejudices. And AIDS.” 

Sherlock pauses, takes a breath, and adds, “AIDS was another reason not to do… this. Until now.” 

“Until now,” John repeats, voice fading into a whisper again. His heart is bursting with the words, three small words. He still doesn’t know how to say them out loud, and instead, he asks, “Do your parents know?” 

“Yes. I told them.” 

Sherlock squints his eyes, focusing on something only he can see. John watches them moving quickly for a second, as if he was puzzling things into the right order. 

“I’m — different from other people.” Sherlock speaks slowly, carefully weighing the words, and John is sure that whatever he’s about to say, he’s never told to anyone before. 

“I’m even different from my own family,” Sherlock murmurs. “I’ve always known that I’m not like my mother or Mycroft. They resemble each other a lot, they think alike — my mother’s a mathematician, my brother is… he thinks he’s a strategist.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in disdain. 

“But I’m also different from my father. He’s a good listener. He understands the way people feel. He knows how to interpret emotions, and how to handle them.” 

John can see Sherlock staring at the thread on the tent roof, just like John did yesterday. 

“I’m not like my family. And when I met other people — primary school, classmates, teachers — I realised that I’m even less like them. One of them called me _freak,_ and… the name stuck, somehow. But it didn’t matter to me, I didn’t care about them. I didn’t bother to connect to them or to fit in. Although I was considered highly intelligent, all my teachers complained about my rude and unsocial behaviour, but I just wanted to be left alone. Read. Study things. Take care of my experiments.” 

He sighs, barely audibly, and adds, “These facts unsettled my parents, so my mum consulted a number of reputable specialists, had me run a few tests.” 

Sherlock’s lips press into a tense line, and his right hand dances through the air in a vague gesture, as if waving away unpleasant memories. 

John can only guess what kind of test Sherlock is referring to. All sorts of psychological stuff that must be utter crap for a child. It must have hurt Sherlock, he thinks. It must have hurt him a lot. 

“Since my parents had been so keen on finding out about all the ways I was different, I decided to inform them about this one as well,” Sherlock says, sounding belligerent and deliberately rude — as if this wasn’t about his sexual identity, about the core of his self, about who he is. As if this wouldn’t matter as much as it does. But there’s a hint of pain in his voice, too. 

“You’re… hurt,” John tries, only fully grasping it as he says it out loud. 

“I’m not.” 

“I think you are, Sherlock,” John says in a low voice. “You know, parents do all sorts of shit to make sure their children are okay. Sometimes they don’t notice that it causes harm as well.” 

Sherlock gazes at John for a long moment. He opens his mouth to speak, but he stops, just taking a deep breath. Something in his eyes changes, and his façade of rebellion and confrontation fades into something more genuine, something more vulnerable. 

“I was different. I was—,” Sherlock says, and then hesitates, as if choking on the word. “Solitary. And I was attracted to my own sex.” 

For a split second, uncertainty flickers across his face. 

“I don’t care what other people say. Most people are idiots, John, and mostly I really don’t bother. But I — I wanted my parents to know. And I wanted to tell them myself, before they found out by accident and… were disappointed.” His voice is low now. He bites his lips, and then adds, “Told them two years ago.” 

John feels ridiculously proud of Sherlock. It can’t have been easy for him, screw his attitude of not needing anyone. It must have been a fucking huge step for him. 

“What did they say?” John asks. 

Sherlock’s face momentarily lightens with a small incredulous smile as he adds, “Initially, they were surprised, but… not much. And then they said they love me no matter what, et cetera.” 

Sherlock furrows his brow. Doubt is written all over his face. 

“Maybe they just do, Sherlock,” John says. 

Sherlock is silent for a moment. 

“I don’t know.” 

“You…” John starts, thinking of what Sherlock told him about his family the other morning. “You still have the feeling they don’t understand you?” 

“Understanding someone is something entirely different from simply assuring him that he’s still being loved.” 

“Yeah,” John says and doesn’t know what to say at all. 

His mum had told John that she loved him when they‘d last talked about med school, at the beginning of the summer holidays. But part of him is burning up with the need to tell her that he’s changed. She doesn’t know who it is that she loves, she doesn’t have any clue who this person is that her son is becoming. He doesn’t even know himself, so how can she think that she does? 

He wants to tell her that her words don’t mean a thing, that they’ve lost their power to comfort him. He sucks in a long breath. It’s only when he is with Sherlock that he feels as if he knows who he’s going to be. What kind of man he will be. 

Neither of them says a word for a while. John brushes his thumb up Sherlock’s neck, along his jawline, and finally across his cheekbone. Sherlock turns his head to kiss him, and John wishes they could stay like this forever. 

“Eddie and James know, don’t they?” John asks eventually. 

“Well, we _are_ rather obvious, aren’t we?” Sherlock says, low voice and humid breath, and so, so close to John. 

At first John thinks Sherlock is making fun of him, but then he understands that he really isn’t sure about how they must look to other people. John’s surprised that there are boundaries to Sherlock’s ability to read people, to estimate their behaviour or their actions. 

So — are they obvious to others? 

They probably are, at least to those who know them well, or to those who know what to look for. 

“Guess so, in a way. But I have a feeling that Eddie and James knew even before we…” he pauses to clear his throat, “er, got together,” John says. 

Sherlock frowns, and interjects, “Never talked about this with them.” 

“Oh,” John says. “Do people at your school know? Do you think there might have been any rumours? Gossip?” 

Sherlock looks at him, blinking. 

“There’s never been anyone at school I was interested in,” he replies. “I don’t do friends, John. And there’s never been any reason to speculate about my sexual orientation.” 

Saying this, Sherlock sounds defiant, a little condescending. 

“Sherlock, James and Eddie _are_ your friends. And I really think they knew, somehow,” John insists. “You know, the night you took E, James asked me if you — shit, how did he put it? — if you mean a lot to me.” 

John takes a breath, and carries on, “I said yes. And he said, ‘That’s good,’ as if he approved. Or as if he was actually glad that you meant a lot to me, maybe he could see that I, well, mean a lot to you, too.” 

He blushes, and adds, “He cares about you, Sherlock.” 

John glances at Sherlock, nervously biting his lips. They’ve never come this close to talking about — feelings. It’s a fucking lot, and he’s doing his best not to screw it up. 

“And then Eddie came to my tent after you ran to the beach, telling me to go after you and… get you back. That’s what he said, get you back. So I think — I think they already knew, Sherlock. That you’re gay.” 

_Or that you’re in love with me,_ John adds in his mind, but then he focuses on what he really needs to bring across. 

“And they like you, Sherlock. They care about you, they’re your friends. At least that’s what it looks like to me.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a long time. 

“Why did they ask me to come here with them?” he asks, finally. John hears the doubt in Sherlock’s words, the hesitance to believe what John has just said. Sherlock squints his eyes, thinking. He seems to be re-evaluating what friends mean, friendship, all of that. Having people he can rely on, who like him, just because he’s — _him._ Because he is the way he is. 

“They just like you, Sherlock.” John brushes a curl from Sherlock’s face and meets his eyes. “And they thought it might be nice to have you around. Even if you bury your nose in a book most of the time.” 

The furrow between Sherlock’s eyes eases a little. 

“And then leave them for the boy next door,” Sherlock adds with a small, cautious laugh. His eyes glitter for a split second, with both joy and a mischievious _I left them for you_. John smiles. 

But then Sherlock’s voice changes, and all his questions and all his disbelief are back. “I don’t understand it, John. Having friends. I don’t know how to do that.” 

“I think you’ll learn. You’re a bloody genius, after all,” John says, pulling Sherlock closer, away from his worries and thoughts. “And I absolutely understand why they want to be friends with you,” he says, leaning in to kiss Sherlock. He kisses him forever, trying to fucking show him how much he means to him, trying to make him stop thinking, stop analysing. 

Sherlock kisses back, melting against John’s body with a low sigh. He grazes his fingers across John’s back in an echo of the way he did earlier, when John was coming inside him. 

They kiss. It feels even more special after all the things Sherlock has just told John. 

John is only starting to understand what it means that Sherlock — who’s always kept his distance from others, who’s never been close to anyone, who’s never been in love — that he’s somehow chosen _John_ , of all people. That Sherlock let down his guard, that he let John in. 

John closes his eyes. He had the fucking insane luck to meet this beautiful, brilliant boy, here on this campsite in France, a place he hadn’t even known existed a few months ago. Without realising what was happening to him, he fell in love with Sherlock, who is _gay,_ which John had no idea about, either. And for some reason, Sherlock decided that _John_ is the first person ever he wants to be close to. 

Fucking hell. The whole thought is so fucking miraculous and amazing that John starts to laugh, low in his throat, deep in his belly. 

“What is it?” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips, but John can hear that he’s smiling, too. 

“You’re gay,” John replies, because it seems to be the simplest way of summing up John’s unbelievable luck. 

“Yes, I’m gay,” Sherlock repeats, disbelief and amusement mixing in his voice. John wants to get drunk on this sound. 

“Can you say it again?” 

“That I’m gay? Why?” Sherlock furrows his brow, smiling. 

“Because I like to hear it.” 

John looks him in the eyes, and then Sherlock leans in to kiss him for a long time. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves John light-headed, that makes his stomach feel like he’s falling, and maybe he is. Falling. Falling for Sherlock. 

“I’m gay, John. I’m really, really gay,” Sherlock says as they break their kiss, voice rough with breathing. 

“You’re fucking amazing,” John says, knowing that it’s a poor translation of _I love you, Sherlock,_ but it’s all he can say without losing his mind. 

Sherlock blushes, and smiles. They kiss again. Kissing is so much easier than saying the things that fill their hearts right now out loud. 

Eventually, John draws back, a little further than before. He runs his fingers across Sherlock’s chest and his pectorals, brushing across his nipples and watching them harden under his touch. 

John hears him suck in a breath, and he strokes Sherlock’s nipples again. 

“When it comes to sex, you’re—” John says, trying to find the right words and not to make this sound weird, “you’re not really, well, _shy_ about trying things. Actually, you’re fucking courageous, and curious as hell. It doesn’t feel as if you were a—” 

“A virgin?” Sherlock says with a low laugh. “I’m not any more, am I?” 

Sherlock smiles and brushes a curl from his face. For a moment, he combs his fingers through his messy hair, thinking. 

“The fact that there was no one I wanted to have sex with doesn’t mean that I wasn’t interested in sex. Or that I wouldn’t want to have sex in general.” Sherlock keeps ruffling his hair. “I’ve… done my research. I was curious. Weren’t you?” 

He looks at John, eyes glittering inquisitively. 

John inhales and holds his breath, trying to come up with an answer, and fails. He exhales. 

It’s warm inside the tent, the sun must be up high already. It’s only now that John registers the sounds from outside — children laughing, people talking, on their way down to the beach. He can’t hear his sister’s voice, though, or Gemma’s; maybe they’re swimming already, or having a shower, or they went to the shop. He’s quite hungry, actually. And he’s evading Sherlock’s question. 

Of course he’d been curious about sex — about having sex with a man. And he’d been fucking scared of what he might find out. 

Sherlock is still watching him, and after a few more beats of silence he asks, “When did you realise that you’re into both girls and boys?” 

John knew this question would come up at some point. And he’d hoped that Sherlock would find an answer to it, sparing John the challenge of figuring out his own. John still isn’t keen on facing the fact that he didn’t quite know how to deal with his sexual orientation. 

“I — I don’t know,” he stutters. 

But just like that morning when he talked to Harry and understood that he’s bisexual, John now forces himself to look back, at the people that had fascinated him, that he’d had crushes on. 

“I’ve had an idea about it for a while, I guess. There were boys or men that I’d… fancied, although I didn’t admit it to myself back then. I didn’t want to see it for what it was.” He clears his throat, trying to carry on. He still grazes his fingers across Sherlock’s chest, not even noticing that he’s doing it. 

“You know—” He falls silent, staring at a stain on the tent’s fabric instead, washed out brown on blue, bleached by the sun. Maybe a fruit had fallen on the tent years ago, a plum from the tree in his parents’ garden, dribbling sticky juice onto the polyester. He can almost smell their garden in summer, ripening plums, his mum’s flowers. He recalls the scent of lavender and dry grass, the air heavy with sunshine and summer rain, back at home. Or what used to be his home, years ago. 

_Fucking hell, you’re here now, with Sherlock, so get on with it, Watson!_

He chastises himself for being distracted, and continues. The words falling from his lips feel like pebbles, hard and incoherent. 

“You know those pictures. The ones you can’t get out of your head when you’re — when you’re wanking. That do so much more to you than all the others. That feel so — I don’t know — forbidden, or wrong. Or dirty. Like something you can’t ever tell anyone.” 

John exhales with the almost physical effort of saying this. 

“You can—” Sherlock starts, quickly and without thinking, but then he stops. 

John looks at him, hoping that Sherlock will say something that makes him feel less alone, that makes talking about this easier for him. 

“Yeah?” John asks, trying to encourage Sherlock to go on speaking, to fucking carry on. Sherlock looks away for a moment, taking a deep breath, and finally meets John’s eyes. 

“You can tell _me,_ John. I’m the same. Well, I’m — I’m not attracted to girls, or women, obviously. But believe me, every thought you might consider wrong or dirty, I’ve had it as well. Every single one.” 

John lets his hand rest on Sherlock’s chest, on the spot right above his heart. He can feel it beating underneath the ribs. It seems to be even warmer now inside their tent, and the air is heavy with their admissions. 

“Like having sex like this — like fucking you?” John asks in a low voice. 

“Yes.” Sherlock is holding John’s gaze as he says this, and John can’t help but admire his courage. 

“You’ve thought about being fucked. By a man,” John whispers. 

“Of course by a man,” Sherlock says with a hint of teasing, and then he adds, more seriously, “Yes, John, I have. So much. And I’m—” 

John can see Sherlock searching for the right word for a few moments, until he comes up with, “You’ve got no idea what it means to me that we did this. It is… important.” 

_Strange choice of words, important,_ John thinks. _Neither of us is very good at talking._ And then he swallows, thinking of his own secret fantasies. He’s getting closer to admitting something himself, but he’s not there, not yet. Instead, John says, “Yesterday didn’t work well.” 

He takes a deep breath. It feels daring to say all this, and in a way, it even feels like so much more than having sex does. It takes a different brand of courage to talk about the things they’re doing. 

“But today did. And it was incredible.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble, it sounds full of memories of pleasure and bliss, of satisfaction. “I’ve fantasised about being fucked so much, John.” 

John’s heart beats loudly. He’s… he’s just going to say it. Now. 

“Me… me, too. Sometimes,” John says in a whisper. 

There. He said it. 

He buries his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, suddenly not able to hold his gaze anymore. He can’t say any more about it, now. Sherlock doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t need any explanation, he just holds John until his heart calms down, kissing his temples. 

John shuffles even closer, his nose against Sherlock’s skin, his eyes closed. He inhales, the air warmed by their bodies, carrying the scent of them, of the old tent, of the sea and the sand. He’s never been this close to anyone. 

Sherlock combs his fingers into John’s hair, kissing it. His cock is pressing against John’s thigh. John hears Sherlock’s heart beating, feels his chest moving with his breaths. It’s soothing. 

The feeling of this holiday is Sherlock, so close to me, John thinks. 

“I want you to fuck me again before we—” Sherlock whispers into John’s hair, voice brimming with need. He doesn’t finish his sentence. 

_Before we leave in four days,_ John thinks, not daring to say it either. 

“God, I want that, too,” John replies shakily. He feels himself getting hard as he thinks of his cock sliding in and out of Sherlock’s body. It’s all still so huge, what they’ve done. He’s overwhelmed to realise he’s already hungry for more. 

“Just — maybe not today,” Sherlock adds, wincing a little, and smiling lopsidedly. John laughs, and leans in to kiss him. 

John’s stomach grumbles loudly with hunger, and suddenly he desperately needs something to eat. He brushes another kiss against Sherlock’s warm lips and props himself up on his elbow, taking a look around for his clothes. 

The thought of simply doing something for a while now feels good. Getting something to eat, having a shower maybe, going swimming, anything. He needs some time to let all the things they’ve said sink in, to become real. 

“Breakfast?” Sherlock asks, apparently reading his mind. 

“Fucking starving.” 

Ten minutes later, they sit in front of their tent, having breakfast. While John waits for the espresso maker to start wheezing, he looks at the sea. He squeezes his eyes against the brightness the air is whirring with and the intense blue of the Atlantic Ocean. Sometimes it feels like a miracle to wake up in the morning, to get out of the tent and still find it there, the sea, lazily washing against the sandy beach. 

Of course it’s still there, he thinks, of course it is. 

He feels the breeze on his face, light and warm with sunshine. But sometimes, a gust of wind coming from the ocean brushes across his skin, and there’s a cold that he’s never felt here before. It’s a hint of autumn, an invisible promise of stormy clouds and rain. 

John frowns, even though the next moment it’s warm again. The water in the espresso maker is boiling, gurgling with fresh coffee. John takes it from the stove and shifts a little closer to Sherlock as he pours him a mug. 

They drink their coffee and have breakfast. They only speak when necessary, but when they meet each other’s gaze, it’s full of everything they just shared. It feels good, this silent understanding. 

“How about having a shower?” John asks once they’re finished. He stretches, smiling at Sherlock. 

Sherlock nods, and climbs into their tent to fetch both their bags of toiletries while John grabs their towels from the line. 

At the shower house, they stand next to each other at the sinks, brushing their teeth. A man and his little son are just leaving, and laughter from outside trickles in through the open door. The boy runs out of the room ahead of his father, giggling, wet shoes tapping quickly over the tiled floor. The man rushes after him, calling something in French, and then, he, too, is gone. 

John and Sherlock are alone now. John looks at himself in the mirror. Even in the cool light of the neon lamp above it he can see that he’s tanned, he can see the dark golden shade his skin has taken on. His hair is bleached by the sun and the seawater, it hasn’t been this light since he was little. But basically he looks just the way he always does and yet — there’s something about himself that he doesn’t remember seeing before. 

He’s different, older, maybe. Changed. He keeps watching himself, the shape of his mouth, the colour of his eyes. The fine lines when he squeezes them. But it’s none of that. It’s more as if something that had been hidden inside him has finally come to light. Or as if old layers of his self had finally been peeled away, a version of himself that he has outgrown by now. 

It reminds him of the time when he started shaving, of the day when he realised he wasn’t a child anymore, and that he didn’t look like one. Something old and well-known has begun to fade, but he doesn’t miss it. His new image in the mirror is still unfamiliar. And yet it feels as if more of his true self is showing. 

He squints his eyes, trying to pinpoint where the change has taken place, but he doesn’t succeed. So he just looks at himself a little longer, at disheveled blond hair, at the shadow of stubble on his cheeks, and at his nose that never stopped looking childishly upturned. He’s never particularly liked or disliked the way he looks, but always accepted it as something given and unchangeable. 

What is it that Sherlock sees in him? Why the fuck did he choose _him,_ John wonders, he could have anyone with the way he looks, with his cleverness. 

John glances at Sherlock; finds him watching him. John half-expects him to reply to the question he didn’t say out loud. But Sherlock just looks at him with dark eyes, a little unfathomable, until he spits out the foamy toothpaste, rinses his mouth and leans against the wall next to the battered sinks, waiting for John to be finished. 

When John turns to go to the showers, Sherlock steps closer. He lifts his hand and wipes what must be a small white splash of toothpaste from the corner of John’s mouth. He’s gentle as he touches him, as if John was something incredibly precious, incredibly beautiful. And when Sherlock licks the toothpaste from his thumb, John can’t help but hold his breath, biting his lip to keep himself from kissing him. 

In the showers, they stand next to each other again. John faces the tiles, out of habit or out of his wish for some privacy, he doesn’t know. They’re still alone in the showers, and this time John dares to look at Sherlock. He takes in his naked body from this short distance, yet further apart than they are when they’re usually naked, inside their tent. In spite of the arousal he felt before they got up, he’s strangely sated now. He stands under the warm spray of water, watching Sherlock washing his body, tall and lean, tan lines and freckles, dark wet curls sticking to his skin and water running into his eyes and mouth. 

John completely forgets about washing his own body, or his hair. When the water stops coming from his shower head, he stretches out his hand to Sherlock, takes a step sideways until he can reach him, and runs his fingers along Sherlock’s side. Sherlock opens his eyes, meets John’s gaze and smiles at him. 

Fuck. 

John exhales shakily. Sometimes it still hits him unexpectedly, although he should know by now. 

He’s so fucking in love. 

John swallows, standing there naked and wet. A few last drops of water fall onto the floor in front of him. 

He wonders what things will be like when they get back. He tries to picture Sherlock in their bathroom, back at home, at his mum’s house in Winchester. What would his mum say if he asked her if Sherlock could stay for a weekend? _Weekends._ That’s how it might have to work, until — until their lives change again in a year, and Sherlock goes to uni and study chemistry. And he? Until he leaves for the army? Med school? What the fuck is he going to do? How can he make sure that he — that he’ll be with Sherlock? 

John forces himself to abandon this line of thought, huffing angrily at himself for being so out of his depth. He will figure out what to do. As soon as he’s back in England, he will. 

John looks at Sherlock once more. He’s still standing next to him, a step closer now. Shampoo is slowly running down his face, his eyes closed against the foam. He wipes it away and reaches out to John, touching his arm as lightly as if it was the spray of the water from the shower. Sherlock doesn’t even open his eyes to do that. 

John swallows. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s for a long moment and gently squeezes it. Then he presses the shower button on the wall in front of him and forces himself to wash his hair. 

When John hears someone enter the shower room, John turns his head. A few men he might have seen before enter, talking animatedly in French. He glances at Sherlock once more as if letting go of their intimacy, of their shared secret touches, and finishes his shower. 

On the way back to the tent, they spot James walking in their direction. John recognises him from afar, with his light hair somewhere between blond and ginger, his straight posture that makes him look even taller than he already is, his blue shorts and open shirt. 

James waves and stops once they’re close enough. 

“Hey,” James says. “Sherlock, er, Eddie called his parents yesterday to tell them about the accident. They were—,” James says, raising his eyebrows, “worried and begged him to come home earlier. So we’ll leave early on Friday morning. Of course we’ll take you to London, as we agreed.” 

From one moment to the next, John feels like he’s falling. In a bad way. 

He stares at James for an interminable minute, and then at Sherlock, while a voice inside him shouts, _Fucking Friday morning?_

James looks at Sherlock, waiting for a reply. When Sherlock doesn’t react, he shifts his gaze to John, crooking an apologetic, doubting smile. 

Just one day less, John tries to tell himself. 

_Fuck, a_ whole _day! A whole day with Sherlock!_ he argues back internally, already clenching his fists although there’s no one he can punch, no one around to be blamed for this. 

Sherlock squints his eyes, thinking, and then glances sideways at John, green eyes glinting. John swallows and tries to relax, to stop grinding his teeth and to unclench his hands. He’s shocked to realise how much this has upset him. 

“I know it’s a day earlier, that’s why I’m telling you now,” James adds, but Sherlock holds out his hand, silencing James, and turns to John. 

“You’re taking the train on Saturday morning, right?” Sherlock asks, fidgeting with his wet towel with one hand, quickly drumming his index and middle fingers against the folded fabric. 

“Yeah, um, we — take the train. And the ferry from Calais, later. We’ll be home some time — late. In the evening. Bloody long ride, all of it,” John says, incapable of forming a coherent sentence. 

Sherlock sucks in a breath, turns back to James and proclaims, “I’ll go with John then.” 

_What?_

John can’t believe how easily Sherlock has changed his plans, just to have one more day with him. He exhales an incredulous laugh. The tone of Sherlock’s voice doesn’t leave any room for debate. To John’s surprise, James just smiles, as if he wanted to say, _I didn’t expect anything else._

Without another word, Sherlock passes James by and walks down the street to their tent in long, hasty strides. John is still three steps behind when Sherlock climbs inside, dropping the bundle of towel and toiletries bag. Within a heartbeat, Sherlock slips out of the tent again, wallet in hand and gesturing in the direction that they’ve just came from. 

“I need to make a phone call. Better get it over with. Come.” 

John throws his own towel into the tent, eager to follow him to the telephone boxes, just next to the small shop. 

There are three telephone boxes in a row, old metal boxes with dirty window glass. The day they arrived at the campsite, Harry came here to call their mum and let her know that the trip went well. All the boxes were occupied with people who wanted to seize the evening hours when calls are cheaper. 

But now, they’re deserted, and Sherlock enters one. John stops to wait outside, preparing to peek at the sea glistening behind the tall, dark-green pines, while Sherlock is on the phone. But Sherlock holds the door open, impatiently nodding towards the inside. John steps into the box, squeezing himself next to Sherlock. It’s hot and stuffy in here, smelling of old cigarette smoke, stale air and the phone’s metal casing. 

Sherlock puts a few coins into the slot and dials. It feels like an endless row of numbers with the UK’s country prefix, and it takes ages until there’s a connection. Finally John hears the familiar dial tone and a low rustle as someone answers the phone. He doesn’t understand who’s speaking or what the person is saying. 

“Hello, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, already sounding exasperated. John holds his breath as he understands that Sherlock’s calling his brother. 

“Listen,” Sherlock continues, clearly interrupting Mycroft, “I’m not going back with James and Edward. I’ll take the train from Arcachon to London instead.” 

Sherlock holds John’s gaze while he talks to Mycroft, putting another coin into the slot every few moments. His eyes flicker with determination, and John guesses that Mycroft isn’t getting much of a say in this matter. 

There’s a short silence on the other side, and then John hears a muffled voice that must be Mycroft’s, speaking in clipped sentences. Apparently Mycroft understands the futility of arguing with Sherlock right now, but what he says sounds like instructions, like an attempt to make sure that if Sherlock chooses to change their agreement, he will do it according to Mycroft’s demands. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock looks at John and mouths, _When does the train leave?_

“Five past six,” John whispers, glad he can immediately remember the time of their departure from Arcachon train station. 

“Train departs at five past six Saturday morning,” Sherlock tells Mycroft bluntly, not caring that Mycroft is still talking. 

Mycroft must be asking something, because Sherlock replies impatiently, “Late, I don’t know, check yourself.” He pauses for a split second, listening. “Don’t bother, I’ll get a cab. Bye,” he says, and without waiting for a reply, he hangs up, and looks at John. 

“It’s settled. I’ll take the train with you on Saturday.” 

John is still so surprised that he can’t say a word, but after a moment, his mouth curls into a smile. Sherlock smiles back at him. 

For the rest of the day, John keep thinking about two things: Sherlock wanted John to fuck him, and he let John fuck him. This morning. It was the best thing John has ever done with another person. And then Sherlock changed his plans for his trip back home — just to have another day with him, and he even called his brother about it. It feels pretty fucking good, all of it, it makes him feel as if they’re inseparable, as if they’re going to make it through fucking anything that might come up. 

Actually, John muses at the beach sometime later, lying on his beach towel and watching the sea, actually they’re getting more than one day out of this. It’s not just the whole Friday, but Saturday as well, he thinks, even if it will only be on the train. It’s going to be a fucking long ride indeed; they’ll change trains a couple of times, and they’ll go on the ferry and take another train to London and then to Winchester. 

Thinking of London or of home feels strange right now, it feels fucking unreal. He doesn’t want to think much about any of it, his heart clenches at the thought of leaving. But Sherlock’s decision makes it more bearable. It means a lot to John, that Sherlock did this, that he changed his plans without the slightest hesitation. He even called his brother! John tells himself that this, somehow, is a sign from Sherlock, and that he won’t have to worry how they’ll carry on once they’re back at home. They’ll find a way. They fucking will. 

Sherlock turns and rests his head on John’s belly, his curls tickling John’s skin. John grins, and he can see Sherlock smile back from behind his sunglasses. 

John watches him for a few moments, until he feels hazy, as if some part of him was still inside their tent, lying naked on his sleeping bag, trying to understand all of this. 

So he slept with Sherlock, he — he fucked him. He fucked Sherlock. 

John looks away, smiling and biting his lips, even if only to cover up his blush and the expression of incredulous wonder that must be written all over his face. 

It was more than he’d ever dared to think about, fucking Sherlock. 

At this moment, John realises he doesn’t even know how to breathe when Sherlock isn’t near him. He needs him like he needs oxygen, like fish need the salty green waters of the ocean. His heart starts to beat faster, and he has to focus on where he is — on the small things around them, just to ground him, and to keep him from fucking freaking out in both wonder and dread. 

He takes in the warm ochre sand of the beach, mixed with broken, bleached shells, dried seagrass and tiny sticks, silvery wood with the bark long split off. The old beach towel he sits on, its faded, washed out colours, its texture, rough from countless rounds of washing. He looks at the people on their beach towels, lying in the sand, talking, reading. Children chasing each other, their footsteps churning sand into the air as they run along the beach. 

Finally, John looks at Sherlock again, at his head resting heavily on his belly. He’s radiating happiness, he looks as if he was bloody pleased with himself and this day. With John, maybe. 

He knows Sherlock so intimately by now, he thinks. It’s not just the exact tone of his skin that he will always be able to recall, the shape of his bones and the pattern of his breathing. It’s not just the way he knows Sherlock’s lips curl up when he’s about to smile, or how he evades John’s gaze for a split second when he’s insecure. It’s the fact that for the first time in his life, John feels as if he really _knows_ somebody. As if he knows him even better than he knows Harry, or his mum. 

It’s just a few days, John tells himself, just a few days since he met Sherlock for the first time. And yet he already can’t picture a life without him anymore. 

He swallows and looks at the sea, waiting for his heart to slow down. 

It’s a calm day. The waves wash against the shore slowly, as if relishing the warm summer days, the days filled with nothing to do. The days that will end soon. The breeze carries the cold across the ocean occasionally, only to vanish again a heartbeat later. 

The sea is endless, and it’s glistening so brightly with sunshine that John has to squeeze his eyes against the light. But he keeps watching it, taking a deep breath, inhaling as much of the salty air as he can. 

There’s something else to all of this. Something John’s pictured, sometimes, on his own, late at night after a party, lying drunk in his bed. It takes courage to face this, so he does it slowly, one thought at a time. He has a look at his fantasies, sober and in the bright light of day, and with the experience of everything he and Sherlock have done throughout the past few days. It still makes him breathe harder, taking this honest look, even forces him to close his eyes for a moment. 

He somehow told Sherlock this morning, not daring to name it, though. He wonders if Sherlock understood him, and he wonders if he will muster the courage to really tell Sherlock, not leaving any doubt about what he wants. 

He exhales slowly, feeling the tension drain from his body. One step at a time, he tells himself, and looks at Sherlock again, dozing lazily on his belly. 

— 

Later they have dinner with Harry and Gemma, sitting between their tents, eating pasta and sipping wine. Afterwards, in the last fading rays of daylight, they walk to the dune, watching the sunset. 

They walk on the wet sand, the sea washing across their feet every few moments. Harry and Gemma are a few steps ahead of them already. John hears them laughing. 

The listen to the waves’ gently swooshing swell, as constant as a heartbeat. The sea is an uneven mirror of dark purple and ultramarine, reflecting the sun’s orange glow. The breeze ruffles John’s hair, just enough that he has to brush it from his forehead. Usually his hair is shorter, and this gesture reminds him of Sherlock. It’s as if it’s rubbed off on John somehow, and suddenly he wonders how many things he will discover that he learned from Sherlock. 

He smiles, and looks at Harry. She’s holding Gemma’s hand, pulling her closer, briefly kissing her hair. 

As they walk, John lets his hand brush against Sherlock’s. Sometimes he tries to stroke him quickly with his pinky finger, sometimes he threads his fingers between his for a split second. He never wants to let go of him. 

Another wave bathes their feet, the water cool against the skin of John’s ankles. He turns around to look back at the way they’ve come. He watches their footprints being erased by the sea. It’s a strange feeling, as if they’d never been here. In a few days, it will be like that. 

“Wine?” Sherlock asks, handing him the bottle he brought. They already drank some of it over dinner, and John starts to feel the blur of the alcohol, buzzing lightly behind his temples. It feels good, it feels better than thinking about the fact that in a few days’ time, nothing here will bear any traces of them. 

The wine tastes rich and dry; it tastes like nights at the campfire and cigarettes shared with Sherlock. 

The feeling of these holidays, John thinks, is getting a little tipsy on wine, and getting completely drunk on Sherlock. 

Someone has brought a ghetto blaster up the dune, there’s music tonight, something French John doesn’t know. A few people are dancing in the light of the fire, beer bottles in hand, passing on joints. 

They sit down next to Harry and Gemma, and a minute later, Arnel joins them and then James and Eddie, bringing the French girls along. They’re drinking, too, and John can see that Arnel and Eddie are sharing a joint. 

Eddie laughs, he looks happy, nothing like he did two days ago, when he hit his head. He wears the plaster on his forehead with the pride of a war hero now, and his girl seems to be impressed. She keeps fidgeting with her long dark hair as they talk, wrapping strands of it around her finger. 

Arnel drags on the joint and exhales. John smells the sweet smoke of weed and tobacco. Sherlock takes a deep breath, as if inhaling the remnants of the drug in the evening air. Arnel holds the joint out to him, but Sherlock refuses. John rests his leg against Sherlock’s, thanking him silently, and trying to show his fucking support for him, if that’s what Sherlock wants. 

Gemma and Harry dance for a while. They’re a beautiful sight. He thinks of how he watched Sherlock dancing, just a few nights ago, how much he enjoyed seeing him like that. But Sherlock just sits next to him, listening to Arnel and James and the other girl talking in a strange mixture of English and French, occasionally throwing in a few words. John curses himself for not knowing how to ask Sherlock if he’ll dance again without making a fool of himself. 

Eddie and the French girl slipped out of the conversation minutes ago. John can see Eddie turn his head and whisper something into her ear. Eddie smiles, radiating confidence and conquest, and the girl giggles and blushes, then has a pointed look at his plaster, giggling some more. Eddie leans in to kiss her, slowly, and this time, she doesn’t turn away. This time she opens her mouth and closes her eyes. By the way her body presses against his, John is sure she isn’t going to send him away tonight. 

Arnel says something that makes James, the other girl and even Sherlock laugh. Maybe he’s telling a joke, but he loses it and bursts into the breathless giggles of people who are high. Finally he curses in Spanish while he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. Sherlock grins and when John looks at him questioningly, he leans closer and translates it for him. 

This is how they spend the evening, just like everybody else does. 

Eventually, Eddie and his girl get up, giggling drunkenly, and vanish into the dark of the night, away from the fire. Their heads are together, talking, or kissing, and every single gesture radiates attraction and readiness. 

The music is still playing, and now more people are dancing. Arnel watches James, laughing at what he’s just said. John wonders if he can see something more than friendship in Arnel’s eyes, if he’s flirting with James. He doesn’t know, and James seems to be oblivious to it, turning to say something to the French girl next to him instead. John laughs to himself, about how this night seems to be buzzing with anticipation and quiet arousal. 

Next to him, Gemma and Harry slump down in the sand, faces glowing after dancing. Gemma leans against Harry, draping one arm around her shoulders. They talk, Gemma whispers words into Harry’s ear. When Harry turns her head to kiss her, John smiles, and looks the other way. 

Sherlock sips on the wine and hands it to John with a smile, looking so fucking easy, so relaxed. He’s even more beautiful like this, John thinks. 

Sherlock keeps looking at him, and John can’t turn his eyes away. His mouth turns dry. 

The longer their gazes meet, the warmer John feels, and it’s not because of the mild summer night or because of the heat of the campfire. It’s because of Sherlock and the look in his eyes, all the things John can see there, and all the things they’ve done. Everything they are, now. 

Finally Sherlock blinks, lowers his gaze and licks his lips, leaning back to fish the pack of _Gauloises Bleues_ from his pocket. He takes out a cigarette, about to put it between John’s lips. 

John holds his breath. 

He has to think of that first night, of the first cigarette they shared. How he looked at Sherlock’s lips and couldn’t look away. 

His heart beats faster against his ribcage, just like it did back then. He hears the embers crackling, and from the corner of his eye he spots sparks, dancing in the hot air above the fire, rising high and higher until they die away on their way into the starlit indigo sky. 

Sherlock’s lips glisten with the wine he’s drunk. John sees the warm shimmer of the fire reflected by his skin, caught in his dark hair. He can see every single one of his lashes, long and soft and fucking beautiful. 

Sherlock’s still holding the cigarette in his hand, hesitating. 

John closes his eyes for one deep breath. He’s aware how close they are sitting, much closer than friends ever would. John’s arm is resting against Sherlock’s side, he feels the warmth of Sherlock’s body in the summer night. He fucking feels him breathing. 

John can’t stop thinking about Sherlock’s lips. He can’t stop thinking about the taste of him, of the sounds he makes when they kiss. They’ve kissed countless times, they’ve tasted every nuance between gentle and rough, they’ve explored the silent kisses and the needy ones, those that demanded and those that offered. 

John thinks about Sherlock’s lips, and he thinks about how he’s ready to lay fucking everything he has to offer at Sherlock’s feet, here, and now. In front of everyone. 

When he opens his eyes, he finds Sherlock still gazing at him. Sherlock must be able to read his thoughts on his face, because after a beat, he tilts his head as if asking _Really, John?_ and both shyness and teasing flicker across his eyes. Sherlock still doesn’t seem to believe all the things John feels for him. 

But, fuck, John means every bit. 

That first night, that first cigarette, that first time he looked at Sherlock’s lips. It feels as if everything that’s happened since then — as if it all had already been there, in the desire that was kindled inside him during that first night at the campfire. 

John tilts his head a fraction, holding Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock’s eyes go wider, and the playfulness and the doubts are wiped away, until only his raw, precious openness is left. 

Very slowly, John leans in, and kisses Sherlock. In front of everyone. 

The music is playing, people around them are talking and laughing in the low flickering light of the campfire. They’re drinking and dancing. Some are looking at them. 

John kisses Sherlock. It’s just a soft press of lips at first. He doesn’t fully close his mouth though, he leaves a little space, just like Sherlock taught him to when he’s smoking. As he feels Sherlock kissing back with the lowest sigh, he opens his lips a bit more, and, with a wildly beating heart, he dares to lick between Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock groans, brushing his tongue against John’s in reply. 

They really kiss, for a long minute, for everyone to see. 

When they draw back, they both have to grin about how fast they’re breathing, their cheeks heated. John swallows, still tasting him on his tongue, him and red wine and cigarettes. 

“Do you—,” Sherlock starts. He clears his throat, and continues, “Do you know that I smoked a cigarette whenever I wanted to kiss you?” His voice is low, but he doesn’t whisper. He doesn’t hide. 

John opens his mouth, huffing a laugh. 

“No,” he finally says, “no, I had no idea.” 

“Since that first night, John.” Sherlock looks at him, eyes glittering silver and green in the dancing light of the fire. “Since that first night I wanted to kiss you.” 

“You didn’t even know me back then,” John replies, sounding rough with wonder. 

“I didn’t need to,” Sherlock says calmly. 

_And neither did I,_ John thinks as Sherlock threads his fingers into John’s hair, guiding him closer. Sherlock rests his palm against John’s jaw as he kisses him. 

Excitement washes through John’s body, and the giddiness that comes with doing something courageous. It’s intoxicating, kissing Sherlock in public, even if it’s only the sheltered public of a group of young people during the holidays. And yet, it’s how it should fucking be, how John wants it to be. 

Nobody seems to care when they finally break their kiss. People are still sitting in the sand, their chatter and high-pitched laughter a low noise against the pulsing beats of the music. Some are handing on bottles of wine or beer as they dance, smoking cigarettes or joints. Other people kiss, too, and no one gives a fuck. 

John glances at Harry, though, and when their eyes meet, he finds her gleaming with pride and happiness. He feels himself blushing, whispering a silent _Shut up!_ in her direction when she blows him a kiss. Arnel is smiling, too, while James is turning his head away, leaning towards the French girl, letting her whisper something into his ear. 

A new song begins to play. Sherlock gets up on his feet and starts to pull John away from the brightly lit circle of people around the fire, their faces illumitinated by the flames, drawn warm and orange across their skin. Sherlock takes him a few feet away where it’s darker, into the half-light between the inky night and the warm orange glow of the campfire. They can still hear the music. It’s something different than earlier, and John recognises the song — it must be _Lithium_ by Nirvana. He smiles. He likes it. 

John can’t quite believe his eyes when Sherlock starts to dance. It’s just his hips swaying at first, then his feet and finally his hands, one fluid motion in sync with the music. John breathes faster at the sight of it, watching Sherlock dance from so close. It’s a fucking marvel, and John feels glad to see him dance again. 

He’s mesmerised by it, how every movement seems to start in Sherlock’s torso, as if it had its roots deep within his heart. It’s as if he poured all his emotions into his dancing, veiling them in the most beautiful way, recognisable only for those that can decypher this code. Like John. 

They’re close, and initially, Sherlock doesn’t touch John. He just dances in front of him to Kurt Cobain’s rough voice and the edgy, raw sound of the guitar, while John stands there, watching. But then Sherlock puts his hand on John’s neck, just like he did this morning, after he came with John’s cock inside him, and he pulls him closer. They’re not touching, but they’re close. They’re really fucking close. 

John wonders what he’s supposed to do now. Usually John hates dancing — no, wrong. He likes dancing. He likes it a lot. He just doesn’t think he’s very good at it. Whenever he’d danced, he’d felt as graceful as a stick, never knowing when to move his feet or his hands or if he should move them at all. Each time, he’d ended up losing his rhythm and his courage, and retreated to the nearest wall to lean against in the darkness, holding a drink. A strong one, preferably. He’d been hoping that no one had seen him, cheeks burning with shame. He ended up avoiding any dancing at all and tried not to feel bitter about it. 

Sherlock’s hand is a light warm press on John’s neck. It grows a little stronger, making John put one foot in front of the other, closer to Sherlock. Sherlock takes a small step back, and when he moves forward again, it’s John who gives way, steps back. And like this, they carefully start to dance. 

Sherlock guides John. He leads him, slowly and giving him time to get used to it, into the beat of the music. He lets John watch him and clumsily copy his motions, until confidence starts to seep into John’s body. John doesn’t know what they’re doing exactly, how they’re moving in unison, it just works. They dance. 

A huge smile spreads on John’s face, and he feels free and light and fucking happy. He even feels beautiful, as if some of Sherlock’s elegance was wearing off on him. He never would have thought that dancing with Sherlock would feel so good. 

The song is over far too quickly. They pause, catching their breath, and waiting for the next one to play. It’s a different style, a little calmer. After the first few chords, a man starts to sing in French, a beautiful, deep and very, very male voice. John looks at Sherlock at the exact moment when Sherlock must recognise it, a knowing smile playing around his lips. He takes John’s hand and starts to dance again, not letting go of John, but taking him along. 

“You… you know this song? The band?” John asks a little breathlessly. Talking and dancing at the same time proves to be a challenge. 

“Indochine. Le Baiser,” Sherlock says. His French pronounciation is fucking perfect and it sounds far more sexy than a language that has always given John the worst headaches should. 

Sherlock smiles again. He leans in to John, and sings along, low and secretly, just for John to hear. 

_Je m’en fous, je voudrais te donner un baiser._

Now John starts to smile as well. Even he understands what this is about. _I don’t care, I want to kiss you._ Or… _fuck_ you, John thinks, grinning now that he remembers that _baiser_ can mean both. 

John watches Sherlock. He’s so close to him that John has trouble focusing on him in the half-light of the dune, away from the fire and the people, on his eyes, or on his lips. He listens to Sherlock’s voice, overlaying the singer’s, as he sings just for him. He’s breathing faster, too, and John can’t tell if he should blame it on the exertion of the dancing, or if it is something else. 

They dance, Sherlock’s hand resting against John’s neck again. He leads him, and then he pulls him closer and into a kiss. 

They dance, and they kiss, and they don’t hide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very, very special thanks to @links, whom I asked for help with French indie music (my favourite French bands of the 1990s - _Air_ and _Louise Attaque_ \- released their first albums after 1994...) and she suggested [Indochine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CM7z42fn220). I'm a helpless addict now. They're perfect.
> 
> After my beta @ennis_november read chapter 19, she told me that the next chapter maybe should come with a bit of a warning. The last days of the holidays will begin for John and Sherlock, and there'll be... some angst.
> 
> The incredible @khorazir has made a [drawing of the fireside kiss](https://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/182198130078/fireside-kiss-a-second-illustration-for-the)! It's perfect, and I love it with all my heart.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After yesterday's mishap with posting an unfinished version of chapter 20, I decided to post chapter 19 a little earlier than planned. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for a dash of angst in the second half of the chapter.  
> Also, please heed the tags - I added _switchlock._

The moment John drifts from the deeper layers of sleep up to the brightly lit waters of consciousness, he is awake. He’s fully awake within a heartbeat, feeling just how one should feel on every single morning of the summer holidays: bursting with energy and hungry for life. 

John sits up, his naked bum on the sleeping mat; he must have kicked aside the towels they use as makeshift bedclothes. As he stretches, his hands touch the tent, and the late August sun, shining through the thin fabric, warms and tickles his skin. 

He looks at Sherlock, curled on his side, and still sleeping. His hand rests on John’s thigh, slipped down from where it lay on John’s belly a moment ago. 

“Hey,” John whispers. He brushes his hand across Sherlock’s curls, warm and soft under his fingertips. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t move or open his eyes. 

John smiles, considering lying down again, wrapping his body around Sherlock’s and doing God knows what with him, like the last few mornings. He almost reaches out to brush his fingertips across Sherlock’s nipples. It’s fucking tempting. It’s really fucking tempting. 

But today the sea is calling him, and he wants to swim. Right now. 

John reaches for the bottle of water lying on the tent floor next to Sherlock’s head and takes a sip. He doesn’t notice anymore how the water tastes different from the tap-water at home. He doesn’t even recall the taste of the water at home, or the smell of his bedroom, of his mum’s kitchen. All these memories have been shoved to the back of his mind, making room for newer and more important things, for the changes in his life whose significance he’s only beginning to grasp. And, after all, Sherlock takes up so much space in John’s head, every minute John spends with him is worth remembering, every small thing he learns about him. 

John drinks quickly, half the bottle in a few greedy gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand afterwards. 

“Hey, Sherlock,” he says again, a little louder. He rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, watching him sleep. He takes in Sherlock’s tender bronze tan, his copper freckles, and then looks at his own skin, darker, with fine golden hair shining in the morning light. 

“Heard you the first time,” Sherlock groans, still not opening his eyes. 

John nudges his shoulder gently and laughs, “Great. Then let’s go swimming.” 

“Hmmmm.” Sherlock feigns sleepiness, John can see him trying to steal a few more lazy moments. But John wants to go out and swim, and he wants to take Sherlock with him. 

“Come on,” John says. 

Now Sherlock opens his eyes and blinks, casting John a mock-disapproving glance. 

“I’m… considering it.” 

John laughs and pulls away the sleeping bag. Sherlock protests half-heartedly, but eventually gives up and stretches with a long yawn. His whole body tautens, from his hands down to his toes, as graceful and tense as a drawn bow. John can’t stop grinning as he takes Sherlock in: his long limbs, broad chest, his belly button, worked into a fine oval of skin. John’s eyes linger at Sherlock’s pubic hair, and his cock, not quite soft, not yet hard. Fucking mouth-watering. 

Sherlock meets John’s eyes again, and John licks his lips, blushing, and looks away. Sherlock must know what he’s doing to him. 

Finally Sherlock exhales, and props himself up on one elbow. 

“Water,” he demands, stretching out his hand to John, who is still holding the open bottle. Sherlock drinks the rest of the water, rakes a hand through his messy curls and yawns again. 

Sherlock takes a look around, and when his gaze rests on his swimming trunks, crumpled on the tent floor next to his backpack, he offers, “Okay. Swimming.” 

They make it to the beach in less than five minutes, still chewing the baguette with Nutella they shared on the way down the hill. They drop their towels, water bottles and sun cream at their usual spot. John makes a mental note to tie the linen back to the driftwood sticks once they get back from swimming. 

It’s still early, way before most people go down to the beach. There’s more wind today, making the waves licking at the shore more lively, crowning them with white foam. 

They wade into the cool ocean, letting it wash sand and seaweed around their legs. John is a few steps ahead of Sherlock, and when the water reaches up to his buttocks, he turns around. He finds Sherlock smiling and raising his hand in a gesture that could be both reaching out for John to hold his hand, and simply pointing out at the vast ocean that’s waiting for them. 

John grins back, and stretches out his hand to Sherlock, just as undecided between wanting to touch him and waving him closer, teasing him to hurry up. Their hands linger in the air between them for a beat, not touching, just a few inches of space between them. John thinks he can almost feel the warmth of Sherlock’s hand on his own, the touch of his fingers. It’s a short fleeting moment, and then, without another word and almost at the same time, they both jump into the sea to dive into the blue-green water. 

Sherlock holds his breath longer than John can. He isn’t up when John breaches the surface in need of air, gasping with surprise at how cold the water is. John swims further towards the light blue horizon, he can’t feel the ground under his feet anymore, and he can’t see Sherlock. 

A moment later, just when John starts to scan the waves for a blur of dark hair and light skin, he feels something touching his sides. He nearly shrieks, and turns as fast as he can, only to see Sherlock, who appears behind him, his hands holding on to John’s waist. 

“Fucking hell, don’t scare me like that—” John laughs, but his words trail away as he sees the look in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s the kind of look that makes him wonder if Sherlock is about to lean in and kiss him — here, just fifty feet away from the beach that’s slowly filling with people. 

They are so close that they breathe the same air for a moment, salty and fresh, mingling with their rushed, warm gasps. John watches Sherlock take a deep breath, and suddenly he vanishes into the sea again, small bubbles of air rising where he dives into the water. 

Sherlock swims further out, further away from the beach. John follows him, and they swim for a long time, until the people blur against the white sand. Sherlock and John come closer to the _Banc d’Arguin._ The sandbank has fallen dry in the low tide, gleaming white in front of them, like a desert island. It’s a surreal, barren place, there’s nothing but sand and the sea, a few birds, crying in the distance, and an endless, deep-blue sky above; no rocks, no grass, not even driftwood washed ashore. John wonders if they should try to get there. His mind conjures images of him and Sherlock lying naked on the hot beach in the midday sun, their bodies dusted with fine sand. He swallows a sip of salty water. Nobody at the beach would be able to see them. 

“It’s too far out,” Sherlock says over the waves, his voice a little breathless from the exertion of swimming. “And the tide will come in soon, we’d have to leave again quickly.” 

John grins. _He’s fucking reading my mind,_ he thinks. 

“Pity,” John breathes, swimming more slowly now. “It’s really beautiful.” 

Sherlock turns to look at him. He slows down as well, catching his breath, and replies, “Would be perfect.” 

_We’ll have to find our own desert island, Sherlock,_ John thinks, trying to find a way to say this to him without sounding like an idiot. _Desert island weekends, in my bed._

The next wave carries Sherlock a little more towards him. They’re in front of each other again, coming closer with every move of their arms and every stroke of their legs in the sea. 

John’s heart beats faster with Sherlock so close. It still happens, all the time, every single time it starts pulsing joy and excitement through his system. And then he feels Sherlock’s hands tangle in his wet hair and Sherlock’s lips on his own. He feels Sherlock’s tongue against his, tasting both sweet like the chocolate spread and salty like the sea. 

John exhales with a groan, kissing back fiercely. 

Sherlock wraps one arm around him, pulling him closer, until their bodies are pressed against each other, Sherlock’s hard cock against his thigh. 

He had no idea that this morning’s feeling of being so awake and so alive could intensify still further. But it does. 

This is his life, right now. 

Something shifts in his mind, in the sound of the words as he thinks them, kissing Sherlock. 

This is _his_ life. 

With the next beat of his heart, he understands that he has to make the most of his life, now. He has to stop waiting for good things to simply happen to him, he has to stop being afraid of the things he actually wants, and that he has wanted for a long time. He has to stop being intimidated by himself, by who he is becoming. It’s _his_ fucking life, and he’s in charge of it. He’s in love with Sherlock, and they’ll only be here for two more days, they’ll only have Thursday and Friday together, and then Saturday on the train — for now. Until they get back home and figure out how to make things work back in England. They fucking have to seize every moment of their time here, together. 

John breaks their kiss, letting Sherlock lick across his lips once more as he slowly draws back to speak. 

“Yesterday morning, when we—” John tries, and pauses, searching for the right words and getting used to the raw newness of his thoughts. It’s his fucking life. 

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, his eyes the colour of the sea, blue-green shimmering with silver, and just as fucking unfathomable as the ocean they’re swimming in. 

“When you fucked me,” Sherlock states. His lips still shine with moisture, and the way he says this makes John blush and feel proud at the same time. He loves how Sherlock just says these things. 

“Yeah, right, er — when I fucked you,” John says, his voice trembling with both courage and nerves. He hopes Sherlock will mistake it for being out of breath. “It was — it was fucking amazing. I just want you to know that.” 

A wave splashes water on John’s face, and he wipes it away. 

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock says immediately, sounding eager, and then adds, more slowly, “It really was.” 

John swims on the spot, carefully with Sherlock so close to him. He doesn’t have to speak up, he could whisper and Sherlock would still understand every word, every syllable. He must hear every ragged breath John takes. 

“Sherlock, I—” John starts, voice firmer now. He swallows, looks at the white sandbank for a beat, and then meets Sherlock’s eyes again. 

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, doing his best to keep his voice steady. 

Not daring to look at Sherlock, he closes his eyes for a second. He needed to say the words in order to realise how much he wants this. Saying them out loud for Sherlock to hear, into the wind that brushes across the ocean, the sea their witness — it makes them real. It turns a fantasy into something that’s going to happen between them. He wants Sherlock to be the first one to fuck him. He wants him to be the only one, and he wants them to do this before they have to part. 

Sherlock blinks quickly a few times, lashes still wet from the sea. John thinks he can see a hint of surprise for a short moment, so short he can’t be sure. 

“Okay,” is all Sherlock says. The air between them vibrates with the low sound of Sherlock’s voice. John’s stomach feels like it’s falling. 

“I will,” Sherlock adds, already leaning in to kiss John again. 

They kiss as long as they can. Sometimes they drift underwater while kissing, sea water flowing into their mouths as they part and find each other again. They manage to breathe without effort while they’re above the surface. The rhythm of their kisses and the ocean is as familiar to them as that of their own beating hearts. 

Eventually, when John’s words have sunk in and became part of who, of _what_ they are, when they’ve bonded over it with sea-wet kisses and caresses, they swim. They don’t speak much, they just swim, point out at the sandbank, at a few seagulls landing there, cracking shells. They watch the sun rise high in the sky, they watch the sea that carries them. 

When they finally turn to swim back to the shore, John scans the beach, trying to find the spot where they swam at night. He thinks of the sea sparkle, and how Sherlock has lightened fucking everything for him, how he helped him discover a part of himself that had been entirely in the dark. 

He tries to find the spot where he kissed Sherlock for the first time, in the dim, rainy light of dawn. 

He can’t say for sure where those spots are on beach, that long stripe of broken white in the morning sun, and he understands he doesn’t need to. He will never forget any of this, ever, in his whole life. 

As they walk from the sea to their towels under the makeshift sunshade, John’s limbs feel heavy. The sand is hot under his feet, and he feels the weight of his own body, almost unfamiliar after swimming for such a long time. 

The girls are lounging under the linen fluttering in the breeze. Harry waves as she spots them. Gemma is lying next to her, reading a book. John waves back, already wondering if the girls have brought something to eat. He’s hungry as hell. Sherlock walks right beside him, and when John glances at him, he’s brushing his wet hair from his face, his skin glistening with seawater. Sherlock looks at him, catching his gaze, and John feels goosebumps rising on his skin, in spite of the sun shining down on them. 

The girls have put the linen back into place, and he gratefully slumps down in the shade. He feels the chill of the sea on his skin, the wetness of his soaked trunks against his warm, dry towel. Sherlock sits down right next to him, resting his leg against John’s. Droplets of water run down from Sherlock’s legs onto his own. 

“Good morning,” Harry says cheerfully. 

“Hey,” John replies, surprised that he still hasn’t quite caught his breath. 

“You were up early,” she says. Her grey eyes sparkle as she watches them. 

“Yeah,” John says, but then stops talking to open his bottle of water and drink. “Just swam for ages.” 

He hands the bottle to Sherlock, not even asking if he’s thirsty. Sherlock takes it, and drinks until all the water is gone. 

They chat for a bit, and when John spots a pack of biscuits next to Harry, they have a few. Eventually Sherlock lies down on his back with a low sigh of exhaustion, closing his eyes. He lies close, and whenever John moves, they touch, John’s leg against Sherlock’s, his hand brushing Sherlock’s side. 

Harry sits across from John, telling him that she’s thinking about having her nose pierced. Gemma smiles as she hears it. Harry turns her head and grins at her. 

“Would look good on you,” John says, chewing the last bites of his biscuit. 

“Oh, you think so? Usually you don’t have much of an opinion on things like that,” Harry laughs. 

It’s true, John is far too pragmatic to bother much about looks or fashion. But he thinks that it would make her look more the way she is here, in France. That new version of his sister, who has a girlfriend and who seems be happy with herself. 

“Yeah. It would be more like — _you,_ you know?” he says, trying to put his thoughts into words. 

“Okay.” Harry sounds proud. She scrunches up her nose and smiles at him. And then Gemma says something about the German girls that left the day before, one of them wanting to get a tattoo as soon as she’s home. 

John listens to Harry and Gemma talking. He watches Harry, how she tilts her head and smiles as she speaks, how she raises one eyebrow when she says something ironic. He thinks of her odd sense of humour that makes him laugh even when he doesn’t feel like it, of her straightforwardness and her fucking courage to say the things he finds difficult to put into words. She’s blunt, sometimes. She’s hurt him more than once with things she’s said. Sometimes, she goes too far, but John has to admit that she’s usually right. She knows exactly which things are painful for John and what he’d rather avoid talking and thinking about. She’s never afraid to make him face them. 

He clenches his jaw, realising that it’s just one week until she moves to Portsmouth. She’ll move out of their house on the day before the new year of school starts — for him, not for her. She’s going to live her own life then, with Gemma, and she’ll start work in a book shop in Portsmouth. She’s already asked him if he’ll help her move, give her a hand carrying the few pieces of furniture she’s taking to the small flat. They’ll drive to Portsmouth in their mum’s car, packed full of Harry’s belongings. He’ll put up the furniture with her, heave the cardboard moving boxes into her new room. It feels so fucking unreal and so far away. John wants to push it away even further. 

In a few days’ time he’ll be without Sherlock, and without Harry. 

He swallows against the panic rising like bile in his gut, and stares at the sunshine reflected on the crests of the waves until his eyes hurt with their brightness. He forces himself not to blink until his vision blurs and he’s completely blinded by the sun and the sea, until the panic finally recedes. 

He’d love to tell Sherlock about this. He needs to hear him say something sarcastic, something only Sherlock could say, like _I’ll find a way._ Something that would disarm his fear. 

John can’t think of a single fucking sentence that would properly convey even a fraction of his dread of losing them both. 

The girls get up from the towels a few moments later. Harry carries the pink snorkel and the diving mask as they walk to the sea. John watches them swimming out until their heads are nothing but small dark dots in the glittering ocean. 

He manages to calm down a bit. His hair is almost dry again, and even his swimming trunks don’t feel soaking wet anymore. He’ll make it through this, being without Sherlock and Harry. He’s made it through other shit as well. And he’ll see them again, both of them. Soon. Maybe Sherlock can come to Winchester on a September weekend, that wouldn’t be too long. 

He wonders how much homework Sherlock usually has to do. Would he have time to spend a weekend with John? 

John turns to look at Sherlock still lying next to him, his eyes closed and his hand curled against John’s thigh. 

John clears his throat. 

“You get a lot of homework at your school?” he asks. 

Sherlock groans, wincing visibly at the thought of school and homework. 

“I mean… would you be able to tear your arse away from your posh public school for a weekend every now and then?” John clarifies with a laugh, ignoring the small part of him that is nervous as fuck asking this. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and lifts his hand to shield them from the sun. He blinks and looks at John long enough for him to start feeling uncomfortable. John clears his throat and hopes he hasn’t asked something stupid, praying that Sherlock actually wants this, to spend a weekend with him, every now and then. 

“Probably,” Sherlock finally says, his voice a deep rumble and full of mock disdain. It hits the exact right tone that makes John grin and forget his worries. 

“Good,” John replies, still grinning, and looking out at the ocean. From the corner of his eye he can see that Sherlock’s lips are curled into a lopsided smile as well. 

“That’s good.” John slides a hand to Sherlock, nudging his side, and then threading their fingers together. John sits up, Sherlock lying next to him, holding hands. In fucking public. 

Suddenly John has to think of how they kissed last night, at the campfire. He licks his lips, a blush rising on his cheeks. 

So Sherlock wants to see him when they’re back in England. John can’t believe it. He’d had no idea how heavily this uncertainty has been weighing on his mind. 

“I’d like to kiss you now, Sherlock,” John says. He says it calmly, not very loud, but he’s not whispering either. He’s not fucking hiding it. 

Sherlock turns to look at him. He sits up, and they’re at eye level. Sherlock’s eyes are light and clear, glittering with determination. 

“Then do it, John,” Sherlock replies. There’s no teasing in his voice. 

John feels as if he’s drowning in Sherlock’s silver-green eyes, the same colour the ocean was on the stormy morning when John first kissed him. And again, just like that day, John feels as if he’s walking towards a steep cliff, still trying to find out if he’s really ready to do this as he gets closer to the edge. But this time, he’s not taking the risk alone. There’ll be two pairs of wings to carry them. 

He lets his gaze drop to Sherlock’s lips for one moment, to the flawless crescent of his bottom lip. They’re so fucking familiar to him, at least in the shelter of their tent or in the darkness of the night. 

He looks into Sherlock’s eyes again. Sherlock’s waiting for him, but he isn’t impatient. He’s there, waiting for John. 

With a wildly beating heart John inhales, and in one fluid, surprisingly easy motion, he leans in. Never tearing his gaze from Sherlock’s eyes, he kisses him. 

It’s — it’s fucking _heaven._

The waves are rolling against the shore, and there’s the low background noise of laughter and talking from the other people on the beach. It’s all overlaid by John’s heartbeat, hammering in his chest with pure fucking joy. 

They’re kissing. Right here, at the beach, not even very well hidden behind the sunshade. Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s short blond hair. Although John’s chest feels as if it’s about to explode from the pounding of his heartbeat, he takes his time, kissing Sherlock properly. He even dares to open his mouth, and brushes his tongue against Sherlock’s, in one, two light strokes. Before he pulls back, he rests his lips against Sherlock’s for another moment. It feels so much easier now. 

When John opens his eyes again, Sherlock is smiling at him. 

John grins. He’s proud. He’s kissed Sherlock, in public, in bright daylight, other people in their vicinity. There are adults around them, just a few yards away, families, not just drunk teenagers like last night, but normal people, with all their prejudices. He looks at Sherlock, and takes his time to look at him, his damp, wind-ruffled hair, his skin, slightly reddened from the sun, the sand that’s sticking to his wet swimming trunks, and even his feet and legs. He takes a deep breath. 

_I love you, Sherlock._

He vows to tell Sherlock, sometime soon. 

They stay at the beach like this, sitting next to each other, talking, looking at the sea. They kiss a few more times. John has to stop himself from taking a look around afterwards to check how other people are reacting. But he doesn’t quite dare to, and nothing happens anyway. Maybe nobody sees them, maybe nobody cares. John wouldn’t have thought it would be this easy. He feels light and free. Fucking everything seems possible. 

They steal some more biscuits from Harry and Gemma, but eventually, they’re too hungry and climb the stairs back to the campsite. They have chips at the restaurant, lounging in the white plastic chairs in their swimming trunks. It feels so much like holidays John wants to laugh out loud. Afterwards they get a new pack of cigarettes and today’s _Sud-Ouest_ newspaper at the shop, and chat a few minutes with Arnel. He’s curious to know how much longer they’ll be staying, and he sighs when he learns that they, too, will be gone on Saturday. John runs his pinky finger across Sherlock’s under the counter as he talks to Arnel. 

Back at the tent, Sherlock sits down in the sand and opens the newspaper. As he reads, he fidgets with the cigarettes. He must be craving the nicotine by now. When John walks past, Sherlock stops him, dropping the cigarettes in the sand. He straightens, looking at John. 

_Fucking kiss me again,_ the look in his eyes says. John smiles and bends down to kiss him. It’s just a brief kiss, and he’s a bit nervous to do it up here. It feels like gradually arriving in the real world, kissing Sherlock when people can see them. Fucking hell, he thinks, wondering how he can be this nervous and happy at the same time. 

Once they break the kiss and Sherlock goes back to reading the newspaper _,_ a smile on his lips, John stands in front of their tent, unsure what to do. Finally he says, “I’ll go and have a shower.” 

Sherlock murmurs something in reply without looking up, and John is almost sure he spoke French. He can’t help but grin as he climbs inside the tent to get his towel, his shampoo and some clean clothes. 

The new pack of cigarettes stays where it is, next to Sherlock, never even taken out of the fine plastic wrapping. 

John’s still grinning as he showers. The shampoo runs over his eyelids and down his cheeks, until he tastes it, bitter and soapy, on his lips. He washes his body thoroughly, even more so than usual. He tries not to think too much about his reasons for doing so, since it feels fucking ridiculous — he has no idea when Sherlock might fuck him, or when they’ll even be on their own for a while. But he wants to be prepared. He’s ready for it, he realises, and he didn’t expect that. 

He thought he’d be excited about this, nervous even. But he’s not as nervous as he expected; in fact, he’s a lot calmer since he told Sherlock, as if that had been the bigger challenge. 

It’s not like it was the day before yesterday, when the hours felt interminable, grinding on their nerves. John knows that they’re going to do this, some time soon. He doesn’t mind if it has to be quick or if it doesn’t work the first time. He just wants it, as if he could take Sherlock home with him like that, imprinted on his body. He’d burn Sherlock’s fingerprints into his skin, he’d have his kisses tattooed all over him if he could. 

John can’t get this thought out of his head as he walks down the small street to their tent. He passes the spot where Eddie hit his head two days ago without even noticing, too occupied with thinking about Sherlock. 

He feels strangely ageless, as if he’s grown a lot older in a short span of time. 17 doesn’t seem to describe his age, _boy_ doesn’t meet what he feels like, and _man_ doesn’t either. He’s in between, or both. Maybe that’s what he is. 

The moment John spots Sherlock, sitting in front of their tent and reading the newspaper in the shade of the pines, he realises he’s also impatient. His skin is prickling with need and curiosity, with arousal. He walks faster, so that he’s out of breath by the time he arrives at Sherlock’s side. He looks expectantly down at him, suddenly unsure what to do or say, how to go on from here. 

John takes a look around. Harry and Gemma are still gone, and most of the other tents are deserted. It’s the silent, hot hours of the early afternoon, on one of the last days of the holidays. People are down at the beach, trying to spend every minute they have left in the sun. John and Sherlock are alone up here. 

Sherlock looks up at him, and within a beat he understands what’s on John’s mind. John can see a question flickering in Sherlock’s eyes. 

It says _Now?_ and _You still sure about this?_

All John can do is nod. 

They slip inside their tent, zipping it closed. They kiss, undressing each other breathlessly, impatiently, until John lies in front of Sherlock, naked, and hard. 

Sherlock shoves his swimming trunks down his legs, and then he’s naked as well. John can’t speak, can’t say anything about how beautiful he is for him. There are no words. 

They kiss, more slowly now. Feeling Sherlock’s body on his own is maddening, the weight of him, the heat of his skin, smelling of salt and the sea and of him. 

An invisible tremor captures John, shaking him from the inside from one moment to the next. Just like last night when they were dancing, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, where to put them. He clumsily threads his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, realising that now, he is nervous. Nervous as fuck. 

He watches Sherlock slipping his finger into his mouth, licking it, coating it in spit. John wants to tell him to use the lube, but the thought of Sherlock’s spit in his… in his _arse_ is perfect, so intimate it makes him blush. John’s breath hitches. Sherlock leans down, kissing him again, pushing his tongue into John’s mouth, and a heartbeat later, John feels Sherlock’s warm, wet finger against his entrance. 

John gasps with surprise as Sherlock rubs light, teasing strokes around his anus, his heart starting to gallop in his chest. God, he’s sensitive, he’s so fucking sensitive. He expected it to be intense, but nothing has prepared him for this amount of sensation. _Holy shit._

He feels Sherlock’s finger circle his entrance and finally rest at its centre, gently pushing, _Christ,_ and pushing a little harder. 

He feels him enter his body, and they’re both holding their breath. Sherlock stops kissing him, he rests his forehead against John’s instead. Finally John feels his breath on his face, coming as quickly as his own. 

Sherlock’s finger is inside him. John swallows. Good. 

Suddenly John’s grateful for all the secret experimenting he did on his own, for the things he tried, and that he didn’t even dare to admit to himself. He did this, sometimes, when no one else was home. He’d touched himself there, found out what it feels like, how it makes him greedy for more, how he’d come shockingly fast. He slipped his own fingers inside his body, gasping at the foreign feeling and at the forbiddenness of it all. 

He’s fucking grateful, because it feels a fraction less overwhelming now. He knows that the feeling of weirdness he’s experiencing now will pass — this feeling that something is going _in_ where usually something is going _out,_ and he suppresses the urge to fight it. He breathes instead, slowly and shallowly, focusing on the sensation. He closes his eyes, and takes another deep breath. 

When he opens them again, Sherlock looks at him as if he’s reading him, every trembling muscle, every flutter of his eyelids. Slowly, Sherlock starts moving his fingers inside him, stopping when John tenses. 

John manages a small nod, and Sherlock takes up his motion again. 

With a low, shaky exhale John sinks back into their bed of towels and sleeping mats, gradually relaxing as he gets used to the sensation. It hasn’t even stopped feeling weird when it starts to feel good, turning into feverish arousal faster than he’d thought possible. He can’t help but breathe harder. Sherlock moves his finger a little faster and John groans a breathless _Fuck_ against his lips. 

John is relieved that it feels good, that he likes it. 

Sherlock slips his finger out, and sits back on his heels. He grabs one of their towels tangled up next to them, and folds it up. 

“Up,” he says in a low voice, putting a hand to John’s hips, and pushing the towel under his buttocks. When John goes down again, his pelvis is a bit higher than before. He swallows. It’s fucking going to happen now. What a bloody fool he was to think he wasn’t nervous. 

John watches Sherlock rip open the condom packet and slip it on. Sherlock’s hands are trembling slightly as he spreads lube on his cock, and John can tell that he’s nervous, too. John watches his pulse flutter in that spot on his neck where his skin is fine and tender. Sherlock meets John’s eyes, and suddenly the tension in his gaze is too much. 

“Come on,” John whispers without thinking, “I’m not getting any younger here.” 

Sherlock looks surprised, but then his mouth crooks into a small smile and his eyes light up a little. 

“Oh shut up.” 

John smiles back. He’s never felt this naked. Sherlock can see his arse, he can see fucking everything. He just touched him there, and he’s going to do it again in a moment. No one has ever seen him or touched him like this. But — it’s okay that Sherlock sees him, like this. He trusts him, more than he’s ever trusted anyone. 

“Please,” John breathes, and now, all teasing is gone from his voice. 

Sherlock looks at him once more, then blinks. Finally he moves closer, until John feels the tip of his cock against his entrance. Sherlock pushes, slowly. John involuntarily bites his lips, but then exhales, trying to relax. Sherlock doesn’t stop, and John gasps at the sensation of the head of Sherlock’s cock sliding into him. 

John breathes harder. He wasn’t prepared for how fucking big Sherlock would be inside him. He feels his anus stretch with a light burn. He takes another breath, deeper now, and simply waits for his body to get used to it. 

He exhales a moment later, managing to let go of some of the tension with it. He looks up at Sherlock. John can see how overwhelmed Sherlock is by the sensation, how much this is turning him on. Seeing Sherlock aroused is like a drug, and John is hooked, he always will be, there’s no fucking chance of recovery. It’s what makes him relax now, seeing how much Sherlock wants this. The sight of him pushes the newness of it all and John’s slight discomfort aside. John tilts his hips in an attempt to move with Sherlock inside. 

Sherlock bites his lips in what might be self-restraint, only to open them a heartbeat later, breathing fast. He never stops watching John as he pushes in. He goes slowly, almost without any pressure, just gliding into John’s body. Only the tensed muscles of his lower belly give away that Sherlock is holding back as much as John had, yesterday, when he fucked Sherlock. Sherlock is gentle like the waves licking at the beach on a windless day. 

John feels _full,_ but not unpleasantly so. Not unpleasant at all. Then Sherlock’s pubic bone pushes against his perineum, so he must be inside him, completely. 

John smiles with both wonder and pride. They made it. They’re both panting although they’re barely moving, and suddenly the air in the tent feels dry with heat. John spots a droplet of fresh sweat on Sherlock’s forehead, and he wants to lick it away. He watches Sherlock close his mouth. His adam’s apple moves as he swallows, hard. 

And then Sherlock slowly starts to move. 

He doesn’t stop. 

John groans, and watches Sherlock’s cheeks flush. A curl falls onto Sherlock’s forehead, getting stuck on his damp skin. Slowly, it darkens with moisture. All the time, John feels him inside, moving, moving faster, ever so slightly. 

It’s much more than _not unpleasant_ by now, and eventually, John starts to move as well; he tries it, carefully. And fuck, he hadn’t thought it would be this good. He tilts his hips, and a sudden pinprick of light and lust flashes through his body. Immediately, his heartbeat speeds up until his breathing is too slow, too fucking slow to keep up with his heart. 

He struggles to keep his pelvis like that, at the exact right angle. The sensation is shocking, and yet he needs it. With Sherlock’s next thrust, he feels it again. _God, fuck,_ it’s no less breathtaking, and he’s light years away from being prepared for it. 

Usually, his arousal is a base, intense feeling building up deep inside him, crying for friction, accumulating in his cock. If it had a colour, it would be heated orange or searing red, like the campfire’s flames. It gradually sets his whole body alight, until arousal burns in every cell of his body. 

But this — this is like a series of mild electric shocks, flitting above every other sensation. It’s so fucking intense that it overtakes everything: his need to breathe, his ability to hear and see, even his heartbeat seems to stutter, overridden for a moment. It’s blindingly bright, electric blue. It’s almost too much, but in the best, most addictive way. 

This electric sensation is like a single violin note; once hit, held forever. Its volume swells until it fills fucking _everything._ Sex often feels like a favourite song for John — there’s a prelude, an intro, there’s the low vibration of the bass, the pulsing beat of percussion, and the teasing lead of guitars. There’s a fucking crescendo, usually; the chorus, and he knows when it starts, and he can lie back, allow himself to fall into it and fucking _devour it._

But now, being fucked like this is — it’s something different altogether. It’s an unknown, unheard symphony. 

Without really realising, John starts to touch his cock and get himself off. 

And then it’s fucking magic. 

He moans at the touch of his own hand. There must be a short-circuit in his body, because every touch to his cock is intensified a thousand times. The electric sensation has reached every molecule of his being, and it’s going even further, down to the sub-atomic level. He can’t control the way he moves anymore. He dimly registers he’s pushing his hips against Sherlock’s body, making Sherlock’s cock meet his prostate as often as possible. He’s panting, and he’s fucking _loud,_ he feels the strain in his voice. He’s sweating, his skin wet where it touches Sherlock’s. 

He’s vibrating, he’s fucking charged with everything. 

This kind of sex has a different choreography, and it doesn’t lead up to one beautiful explosion of lust in the way it usually does. That single electric note rises to the sound of a whole fucking orchestra; the violins playing until the fine hair of the bows threaten to tear apart. And although it seems impossible, they fucking hold that note, whirring in the air. It vibrates in his body until he starts to burst with sensation — and then he’s coming, panting, moaning, and coming, and coming. He hadn’t known his body could do this. He hadn’t known he was capable of feeling this. 

Before his vision fades to white, he looks at Sherlock, taking him in as if he saw him for the very first time. He must be gaping as he takes Sherlock in, mere heartbeats stretching into eternity. 

Sherlock is still fucking him, his skin flushed with arousal and faintly shining with sweat. God, he’s enjoying it, his thrusts are turning erratic, he must be losing himself in ecstasy. John watches him come, he _feels_ him come inside him. After two last hard thrusts, Sherlock collapses on top of him. John hears his groaning gasps as he slumps down on John’s chest, his breath brushing hot and fast across John’s skin, Sherlock’s heart beating against his own. 

John’s body is numb afterwards, from breathing too hard for too long a time. He can’t feel his lips, or his fingers, the whole periphery of his body has vanished from the map his brain holds. He feels the silly urge to giggle, but he doesn’t have the energy, not even the air in his lungs he’d need to make a sound. He’ll just have to wait until his bones and muscles and every single nerve cell are ready again. 

He registers that Sherlock is kissing him, his arms wrapped around John’s body. 

“You’re so beautiful, John. You’re so fucking beautiful,” Sherlock whispers. There’s a tremor in his voice, the slightest shiver, and it makes John pull him even closer, and hold on to him with the despair of a drowning man. 

John had said these exact words to Sherlock after they’d slept with each other for the first time. He knows what it feels like, seeing his lover like this. His throat tightens with emotion, and he can’t speak. 

Sherlock cradles John’s face and brushes light kisses on his cheeks, each accompanied by a huff of air, his breathing still ragged from his own climax. 

They hold each other while they catch their breath, slowly arriving in the real world again. John kisses his neck, tasting the salt in his sweat. 

_He has the whole sea inside him,_ John thinks, _his eyes its colour, his sweat and spit and come its salt. He’s as unfathomable as the sea, and as fascinating. I’ll never get enough of him._

Their skin dries, and they stick to one another as they move, breathe, shift a fraction to place a kiss on a warm temple, to brush lips against a collarbone. 

John feels Sherlock’s cock soften inside him, and slip out eventually. John’s sensitive, and sticky and wet. It’s an odd sensation, and he tries to find a word for it — he feels raw, and maybe the slightest bit sore. He’s calm, the kind of tranquility he only feels after truly shattering orgasms, the kind he feels after having sex with Sherlock. He smiles as he finds the word: he feels _fucked,_ in the best possible way. It will take some time — or a few times — until he gets used to this, he supposes. 

He breathes Sherlock in, every molecule of him, as they lie there, holding each other. 

After a long time, John lifts his arse off the towel, and uses it to clean himself up. He remembers how he washed himself under the shower, and it feels as if hours have passed since then. He remembers how he wanted Sherlock’s touch imprinted on his skin. It does feel a bit like that, now. 

He shouldn’t think this way, but — but this feels so fucking much like the least heterosexual sex he could have. He grins, proud that he had the courage to try this, after fantasising about it for ages; until suddenly, the briefest thought of his dad flickers across his mind. Quickly he tries to push it away, but he can’t unthink it, can’t unremember it. He tenses. 

_He’s an arsehole, he’s a shite father, and he’s a drunk. On top of that, he’s also a homophobe,_ Harry said, just few days ago, when he came out to her. _Dad doesn’t matter,_ she said, and she’s fucking right. 

He exhales sharply, trying to get the whole thing out of his head. His dad doesn’t fucking matter. 

John looks at Sherlock and finds him watching him. He must have read every single one of John’s thoughts. 

Sherlock squints his eyes, shifting a bit so there’s more space between them, and says, “Your… father.” 

His voice sounds raw and hoarse, and he clears his throat. 

“Yeah, er — yes,” John admits. It’s no use pretending Sherlock isn’t right. 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, not in an annoyed manner, but rather as if he had just proven a point to himself. 

“You don’t mind?” John asks. “You’re not surprised?” 

“No. I considered it an option that your father might be homophobic, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Not enough data. Now I know,” Sherlock replies. 

“Yeah,” John sighs. “Now you know.” 

He brushes his thumb across Sherlock’s eyebrow and feels Sherlock lean into the touch the slightest bit. And then Sherlock shifts some more and lies beside him, propped up on his elbow. His naked body a long, slender silhouette against the blue-yellow fabric of the tent. He strokes his hand lightly across John’s chest. 

“Now that this is on your mind anyway, you might as well tell me about him. About how things continued. That wasn’t the end of the story, when he moved out, was it?” Sherlock says. 

John stares at the tent roof for a moment, almost lost in the touch of Sherlock’s hand. 

His dad — John exhales. What else can he say about him? 

“You know almost everything about him,” John says after a moment, “he lost it, somehow, lost his job, became an alcoholic. My mum put an end to it after...well, I suppose she must have been trying to save their marriage for fucking ages. He moved out of our house and in with his girlfriend.” 

Recalling these facts makes his father sound even sadder, even more like a failure. John isn’t keen on going into detail, sometimes he’s — he’s ashamed of his dad. Of the fact that he lost control of his life like that. 

“He used to be kind and funny when I was little. Or maybe he just seemed that way to me. The older I got and the more he got stuck in his problems, the more extreme and hateful he became. Whenever he opened his mouth he sounded like a fucking tabloid — all the usual shit, you know. How the foreigners were taking our jobs, how everything got more expensive. How AIDS was ‘gay cancer’.” 

John groans with frustration. 

“He defended one of his moronic drinking mates who’d chased his son out of the house because the kid was gay. Said the man would be right to disinherit his son. I’d never seen him like that when I was little, Sherlock. I don’t know what had happened.” 

He takes a deep breath and turns to Sherlock. Sherlock simply listens, his face unreadable, his hand still stroking John’s chest. 

“Maybe he just started to feel superfluous, or inferior, I really don’t know. He couldn’t deal with the fact that mum earned her own money, or that Harry and I might get a better education than he got. He was 16 when he left school for work. And Harry gave him a fucking hard time, she was really difficult to handle when she was thirteen.” 

He clenches his jaw, anger rising inside him. Harry’d been a pain in the arse at that stage of puberty, but fuck, she was just a teenager. Their dad was supposedly the adult, and he was her fucking father. He should have acted like one instead of making it all worse. 

John rubs his hand across his face. Getting all worked up about this _again_ won’t solve anything. He forces himself to fucking _focus._

“ I — I think he somehow felt betrayed by us. He blamed us for the problems he had. He started to drink, and to shout, all the fucking time. And the louder he got, the less we listened to him.” 

He sighs. He stops talking, trying to find the right words, and turns his head towards where the sun shines on the tent. Rays of sunlight pierce tiny holes in the fabric. The light looks clearer today, there’s a sharper edge to it, the haze of summer lifting. 

He knits his brows and carries on, “After he’d moved out, it felt like we were all holding our breath, still waiting to see what would happen, what he’d do. But nothing happened for a while, except mum had to work even more shifts. He was gone and we were left in peace. As you said, things got better, generally.” 

He thinks of how they redecorated the house in one weekend, how they’d painted the kitchen bright blue. It had been Harry’s idea, and he’d loved it. It had given him something to do, something to work on, while he was still trying to wrap his head around everything that had happened. 

“A year later, there was the divorce and we’d expected that it would settle the rest, what to do with the house and everything. But Dad didn’t agree to selling the house. There’s still a mortgage being paid back, and both our parents are the owners. Mum said from early on that the house might be too expensive to keep. At first, Harry and I didn’t mind that we couldn’t sell it, we didn’t want to go. It felt like losing — I don’t know, like losing our childhood again, like our family breaking apart all over. Dad was already gone, and although we’d all been relieved about that, it was still fucking sad.” 

He lets out a long breath, almost a sigh, but then the sadness is wiped away. He raises his eyebrows in exasperation, remembering the fights between his parents about the house. 

“Dad refused to sell the house. I don’t know how they actually did it, but they fucking didn’t find a solution for the house during the whole divorce process. In the end, we kept the house, mum and dad still were the owners. But our dad — there are these payments, child maintenance — so mum hoped things would be a bit less tense financially.” 

He stares at the tent ceiling. He grinds his teeth until the muscles ache with pain. Sherlock’s hand is a warm weight on his chest. 

“He never paid,” Sherlock states in a low voice. 

John huffs a breath through his nose, still clenching his jaw. 

“No, he never paid.” 

John opens his mouth to add something, but he stops after taking a long breath, long enough for a rapidfire of anger and frustration and questions — the same questions he’d asked himself over and over for the past three years. The questions that left him feeling bitter and hard about someone he used to love unconditionally. 

He exhales, slowly, trying to let go of his anger. He and Sherlock — what they have, what they just did, it’s too fucking precious to be ruined by his mess of a family. He won’t let his father have this, too. 

And so he just says, “Mum worked even more. And Harry started to drink a fucking lot when she went out. And she’d often go out when mum had a night shift. It took me a while to realise how much it actually was, and that… that there’d been some kind of system to it. That it was more than just getting wasted at a party. I still have no idea how she got the booze, she was too fucking young to buy it herself.” 

He’d heard Harry’s voice, wasted, torn between laughter and crying, talking to her friends at the front door, he’d heard her throw up in the bathroom at night. He’d also seen her calm, but the motion of her hand blurred and imprecise, lacking her usual determination. He’d heard her speak slowly like a broken cassette player, laughing for no reason. He’d understood that sometimes, she drank just — at home. Without any reason except for — all of this, her life, their parents, John didn’t quite know. 

“It was a fucking bad situation,” he says quietly. “I knew something was getting out of hand. I tried talking to Harry, but mostly she refused to discuss it, she can be so fucking stubborn. I didn’t want to tell mum and betray Harry, but it couldn’t go on like that. I felt responsible for her, and for mum, too. I didn’t want to add something on the pile of things mum was worrying about. So I tried to talk Harry out of it, to get her away from her idiot friends. I made her watch the telly with me every bloody weekend. Made a fucking fool of myself, I guess. Mum didn’t notice any of it for a while, she was so busy working.” 

John still isn’t sure how much their mum knew about the drinking. After a teacher talked to her about Harry’s falling grades, she’d paid more attention to what Harry was doing, been much stricter. But maybe she hadn’t dared look too closely, too afraid what else might come up. John has no idea. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. 

“But Harry managed. She’s better now,” Sherlock states. 

“Yeah, she is. It has been better for a while, and Gemma really makes a fucking difference.” 

He hopes that it will be enough, that Harry will learn to deal with problems differently. 

“In spite of your mum’s hard work you still can’t afford med school,” Sherlock says into the silence of John’s dark thoughts. 

“Yes.” 

“You aren’t in contact with your father.” 

“No, I’m fucking not,” John says. There’s anger in his voice again, anger that Sherlock doesn’t deserve. “He didn’t want to see me after he moved out, or any of us. And by now, I’m just fucking done with him. What does he need a house he doesn’t live in for? Harry is moving out next week, and I’m old enough not to stick to that place either.” 

This wasn’t completely true. He still loved the house, and leaving it would hurt, even now. There are still happy memories clinging to its walls and to the scent of the rooms. Memories of his childhood days hang in every corner like cobwebs, hidden under the rug, in every creaky drawer, behind every picture frame hanging on the wall. 

“We can’t sell the house, my mum is still paying a fucking fortune for it, and she has to pay for everything for Harry and me. Why’s he doing this? I don’t fucking get it.” 

Anger rises inside John again, it’s already boiling under Sherlock’s hand on his ribs, separated only by the thin layer of his skin. He turns his head to Sherlock as if he might know the answer. 

“I might not be an expert on—,” Sherlock says hesitantly, “relationships, or family dynamics.” 

Christ, he really knows an answer, John thinks, both incredulous and grateful that someone is offering him some kind of explanation, after all these bloody years. 

“But I think this is the only way he has left to exert any influence on you,” Sherlock carries on. “He was deeply unsettled when your mother, Harry and you grew less dependent on him. Making your life difficult in the way you have described it, is probably his last option. There is nothing left he can do. He fears that if he doesn’t do this, all of you will move on and erase him entirely from your lives.” 

“He’s my fucking _father,_ Sherlock,” John huffs louder than intended, frustration swelling up inside him. “I wouldn’t fucking _delete_ him from my memory.” 

“He doesn’t believe that. I take it that he has low self-esteem, a lot of self-doubt. Depressive episodes even, maybe.” 

John is silent. He has never looked at his dad this way. His father had turned from the loving, laughing dad from John’s childhood into this angry and deliberately hurtful man. Could it be possible that he was, what? — insecure? Afraid of failing? His dad, who John used to admire because in John’s eyes, he’d known fucking everything? It’s not an easy thing, picturing his dad like that. And yet, after a few moments of getting used to the thought, John has to admit that it sounds reasonable. 

His dad must have felt superfluous without a job, like a failure. Maybe he’d felt inferior and maybe he’d never felt that way before, maybe he didn’t understand at all what had been going on. He must have retreated to hate because it offered him an explanation for why the world and his life were going wrong. Fucking poor coping mechanism, John thinks, but his anger is tinged with sadness, with regret. 

He meets Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, just long enough to see that Sherlock is thinking, puzzling things together in his mind. 

“You need his support in order to go to med school. He’d have to agree to selling the house,” Sherlock concludes. 

John clenches his jaw and remains silent for a long moment. Finally he admits, “Yeah.” 

Sherlock shifts, but John just stares at the tent above him, so occupied with his own worries, with his frustration, and the helplessness that he hates most of all. He barely notices, just from the corner of his eye, how Sherlock’s body goes limp for a beat, as if all his energy has been drained from him. Sherlock’s hand slips from John’s chest and lies on the plastic of the sleeping mat. John rubs his hand across his face and reaches out for Sherlock, stroking his arm. 

“You should make sure you get it,” Sherlock says, almost voiceless. 

Then he sucks in a breath, and John feels him straighten beside him. When John turns to look at him, he catches a momentary glimpse of an underlying hardness in Sherlock’s posture that John hasn’t spotted before. 

“And how should I do that? What’s going to stop him from carrying on just the way he has the past few years?” John asks. 

“Maybe the question is rather… how to make sure that you don’t give him any reason to act the way he does. He’s been doing this for a long time now. Hurting the people you used to love drains a lot of energy, and it isn’t a happy task. He might stop at some point.” 

John doesn’t understand. But that’s something that happens with Sherlock; sometimes John can’t keep up with his thoughts, with the sheer fucking speed and complexity of his conclusions. So far, he’s just taken Sherlock’s word for it. He’d like to do that this time, too, but he doesn’t understand what Sherlock is actually referring to. 

“Fuck, I don’t know, Sherlock,” John says, suddenly tired of talking, tired of this whole fucking topic. They shouldn’t be discussing his dad now — they’re naked, they’ve just had fucking mind-blowing sex. 

He runs his hand across Sherlock’s naked sides, the tender skin between his hips and his chest. He leans in and brushes a kiss against his neck, his jaw, his lips. Sherlock kisses back, hesitantly, but John keeps at it, seducing him into the kiss until Sherlock gets hungry and John feels his tongue against his own. 

Later on, they shower. When they come back to the tents, neither of them knows what to do. John looks at the deep blue sea, but he can’t bring himself to go down to the beach again, not right now. He craves a cigarette. 

He feels Sherlock’s gaze on him, and when he looks up, Sherlock just nods and gets the cigarettes from their tent. They sit on the bench, and John wonders if Sherlock wants to kiss him as he lights the cigarette. 

Sherlock drags, exhales and hands the cigarette to John. 

“So you’re going to join the army, John?” 

Doubt and insecurity wash up from John’s gut, carrying a hint of nausea with them. Fuck. Another mess he hasn’t sorted yet. 

“I — I think I might try,” he says. “It’s the best option, if my mum is right and we can’t afford med school. Don’t think my dad will suddenly change his fucking mind.” 

John’s voice is almost gone, he forces the words out against the lump in his throat. 

“The army really offers a lot,” he adds eventually, trying to persuade himself once again that it might be a good idea. What fucking options does he have? He somehow has to make it work, _with_ Sherlock being his boyfriend, but he has no fucking idea how. He gives the cigarette back. “I’d have to stick with the army afterwards, for five or six years. It’s not that long, is it.” 

It sounds so fucking hollow even to his own ears. 

John casts Sherlock a sideways glance, trying to see his reaction. Sherlock smokes, turning the cigarette and staring at the glow, bright burning orange, but being covered in dying grey ash with every second that passes. 

“Not that long,” Sherlock says, voice low and unreadable. “And would you volunteer for a tour? To a war zone?” 

John stares at the sea. 

_No, I don’t want to. I’d really rather stay here, Sherlock, with you. That’s fucking all I want._

But Sherlock just agreed, it’s not that long, five years. And after all, the idea of working in a field hospital used to fascinate John, before he — before he met Sherlock. He swallows down a sigh and bites his lips instead, turning vulnerability into desperate rigour. He feels obliged to do it, if he’s honest. He’s so fucking torn. 

“I’m not sure,” John says, playing for time. He clears his throat. “The army encourages it. And it’s where army doctors are needed most, isn’t it?” he tries, hoping that Sherlock will say something, _anything_ to lift the insecurity off his chest. Something that won’t make him make this decision. 

“While I understand the necessity of providing medical personnel in a warzone, I consider it too risky to employ the best doctors there,” Sherlock replies coolly. 

John huffs a breath, not sure he understands. 

“Yeah, but — people would fucking die before they could even get to a safer place! Shouldn’t you have the best doctors and nurses right where they are needed?” John argues, only realising a heartbeat later that Sherlock might have referred to John as one of the best doctors. It lights a bonfire of pride in his chest, to know that Sherlock has so much faith in him. But now he’s even less able to entangle the mess of his emotions and to grasp what Sherlock is actually saying. 

Sherlock looks at him, squinting his eyes in examination. 

“Of course you would do that, John,” Sherlock says. His voice is so low that it’s almost a whisper, but he’s close enough that John can hear every softly humming breath Sherlock takes. Every word is clear, cutting through the warm afternoon air like an cold gush of winter wind. 

“You don’t look like it at the first glance, but there’s so much loyalty and responsibility imprinted on you that you would do that. Serve where you are needed most. You’d not only be an excellent doctor, but also an excellent soldier. Even if it means putting your life in danger.” 

John opens his mouth to say something, to contradict. 

There are no words coming to his mind. He’s wiped blank. 

The small space between them, small enough to touch, to hear each other breathe — for the duration of a few fervent beats of John’s heart, this small space stretches into light years, whole galaxies expanding and collapsing between the two of them. 

John sucks in a breath, quick and harsh as he realises that Sherlock’s fucking right. He would do that, serve where he’s needed most, even if it means going right to the heart of a fucking war zone. And Sherlock knew it before he even did. 

John swallows hard, and finally, he takes the cigarette from Sherlock’s hand. He drags as long as he can, until his lungs are bursting with smoke, and for a split second, it tastes like ash and explosion, like burning petrol and seared skin. 

John watches the sea, not sure if it’s calming or unsettling him. They finish the cigarette in silence, and then they just sit there. 

As the minutes tick by, he calms down a bit. He isn’t sure if he’s ever felt this much at once before — the excitement and the joy about the sex they had, the experience of being so open and so fucking close to someone. Sherlock has seen him as unguarded and as inhibited as it gets, and he seems to understand him even better than John does himself. John’s okay with that. Then there are all the things they talked about, his dad, his worries, and the fucking army. It leaves him confused and unsettled. He just doesn’t want to lose Sherlock, ever. 

For now, he feels too raw to think about how to solve the problems of their future. He needs to get used to this, to himself again, with everything that’s happened and that he’s understood about himself. He turns his head a fraction and watches Sherlock’s profile; his hair, the wind tousling his curls, his eyes squinted against the sun, drawing fine lines into the freckled skin around his eyes. 

Sherlock must feel John’s gaze, because he shifts and meets John’s eyes. 

“Bloody hero,” Sherlock murmurs, and while John is still trying to come up with an answer, with a defense or correction, Sherlock starts to smile, and John feels a ton lighter. 

They move between the beach, the bench and their tent for the next few hours. The time passes in a blur of sunshine and wind that tastes of sand and salt. Their talk still echoes in John’s head, but it fades until the emotions lose their sharp edges, until the exact sound of the words blends into soft white noise, less intimidating, easier to handle. John is left with the vague feeling that something was said the consequences of which he can’t fathom right now. 

John opened up to Sherlock. He’s never told any of this to anyone else. Not even Harry. There’d been no need; she was fucking there, lived through it all in her own way. 

He never expected to feel better after sharing this. He only ever thought he’d feel embarrassed, vulnerable. Weak, maybe a bit like a failure, like his dad. But then he never pictured that the person he’d tell this to could be someone like Sherlock. 

But none of this solves his fucking problems, he thinks, of how to pay for med school, or how to carry on with his relationship if he really joins the army. He’ll… _shit,_ he’ll just try to be a good son, work hard, get good grades and stuff, to show his dad that he’s worth supporting. In case his dad even cares. 

They eat something, but John doesn’t even pay attention what it is or what it tastes like. They meet the girls at the beach, but neither he nor Sherlock talk much. Even later, at the campfire, they’re both quiet and lost in thought, listening to Sherlock’s CDs on his discman. They kiss a few times, they share wine and cigarettes, faces lit by the dancing flames of the fire. They don’t dance tonight, no one has brought a ghetto blaster. John spots a few new people, some boys he’s never seen before, and he doesn’t put any effort into getting to know them. Eddie doesn’t show up, he’s probably with his French girl. James and Arnel sit next to each other, talking and laughing. 

The evening passes quickly, and Sherlock and John don’t stay long. When the batteries of Sherlock’s discman die, they leave. They walk along the shore, back to the campsite, their hands brushing against each other in the rhythm of their footfalls. John takes Sherlock’s hand and doesn’t let go, and the way Sherlock threads his long fingers between John’s feels reassuring, like being held, like not being alone in this. They stop to kiss, half-drunk in the fading moonlight, their feet wet with a wave that rolls in further than the others. 

Nobody smells as good as Sherlock, John thinks, as Sherlock pulls him closer. They kiss, Sherlock’s hands tangled in John’s hair, and John can’t stop running his own across Sherlock’s body. Back inside their tent, they love each other, stroking each other until they come, wordless in the dark of the night. It feels like an echo of the sex they had earlier, a fainter explosion of bliss, but no less intimate, no less a fucking miracle. They fall asleep holding each other, the air hot and humid with their mingled breath. 

— 

John wakes. Even in the dark he senses immediately that he’s alone, that Sherlock’s gone. He reaches out, feeling the sleeping mat beside him, but he already knows that he’ll find nothing but cool emptiness in the space where Sherlock usually sleeps. 

It’s dark, and the tent is enveloped by the sounds of the night. A seagull cries far away, the wind brushes across the hill and rustles the branches of the pines, while the waves, never-tiring, wash against the shore. It’s all louder, now that the noises of the day, the laughter and the chatter, have fallen silent. 

He can’t hear Sherlock. 

John gets up, finds a pair of shorts and a shirt in the dusk of the tent. He dresses quickly and steps outside. 

The sky is lighter than he expected, lit by a myriad of stars, by the whole fucking milky way above them. He thinks of how he saw this before, one night at the campfire, and of his vow to show it to Sherlock. He hasn’t, he still hasn’t. 

John takes a look around, trying to see a shadow moving in the darkness, some hint of Sherlock. He turns on the spot and finally, his eyes come to rest on a small, orange light in the direction of his bench. It’s glowing lighter one moment, only to dim away again a heartbeat later. 

It’s Sherlock, sitting on the bench. He’s smoking alone in the darkness, like that night after they first talked at the fire. 

John walks towards him, the silvery sand cool under his feet. It’s chilly. Autumn is creeping in at night, when the sun can’t keep it at bay. Sherlock is crouched on the bench, knees drawn up to his chest. He must be cold in spite of the hoody he’s wearing — John’s grey rugby team one. He doesn’t turn to looks at John as he approaches. 

“Hey, you alright?” John asks into the night, his words almost swallowed by the low, constant sound of the sea. 

Sherlock briefly shakes his head, not clarifying if he’s not okay, or if it’s just — nothing. 

John sits down, feeling the wind on the naked skin of his arms and legs, and the thin, worn-out t-shirt doesn’t do much to keep him warm. He shifts closer to Sherlock and wraps one arm around him. He holds him, warming his own body as much as he’s trying to comfort him. 

Sherlock exhales white-grey smoke into the night, and John feels him resting against his shoulder. The warmth from Sherlock’s body seeps through the thick fabric of the hoody, making John hope that it will take on the smell of him. 

Sherlock doesn’t say a word, but pulls again on the cigarette. It glows brightly against the charcoal sea, and then he hands it to John. The smoke tastes strange as it mixes with the hint of toothpaste John can still taste on his lips. Mint and smoke and sleep in his mouth, John thinks, wishing he’d brought some water. He buries his nose in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. It’s naked and warm, and it smells like love, like hope and the opposite of loneliness, like everything John wants to call _home._

They smoke in silence. John doesn’t ask what it is that is weighing Sherlock down, and Sherlock doesn’t explain. 

_Just two days left,_ John thinks, _no wonder Sherlock is worrying._ It’s surely worrying John, amongst other things. 

_We’ll find a way,_ John tells himself as a pinch of panic creeps up his spine. _We’ll fucking find a way._

Suddenly he hears that song again in his mind, the one they listened to two evenings ago and tonight as well, at the fire. _The Cure,_ he remembers. 

_Never never never never never let me go he says  
Hold me like this for a hundred thousand million days _

John exhales slowly in an attempt to ease the pain in his heart. 

They sit, watching the pale sickle of the moon and its distorted reflection on the waves below. At some point, John no longer keeps passing the cigarette back to Sherlock; he just gently puts it to his lips. He feels him drag, and watches the light grey smoke of his exhale vanish in the night air seconds later. 

“Sherlock,” John whispers, a long time after they’ve finished their cigarette. Sherlock sits next to him, warm and motionless, looking as if all his energy has been sucked out of him. 

“Let’s go back to bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since chapter 20 is already up from AO3's point of view, I can only change the content, but not post it again - this means there'll be no new e-mail notification. (I have absolutely no idea why I can't delete the chapter and then post it anew. This used to work, but now the button's gone.) I guess I won't be able to post the finalised chapter until in three weeks. I can tag you on tumblr or twitter if you want, just let me know (I'm alexaprilgarden there as well).


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a situation in the last third of this chapter where John and Sherlock will encounter homophobia (mainly slurs). All will go well, but if you prefer to skip that part, stop reading at the asterisk (*) and jump back in at the two asterisks (**). There'll be a summary of the scene at the end of the chapter.

_Thursday,_ John thinks as soon as he can put a coherent thought together. The morning light is already brightening the world, creeping in behind his closed eyelids.

_It’s Thursday morning. One full day left, and then one more on the train._

The familiarity of their tent and every sound inherent to this place, even its smell and the sunshine warming it — now that John knows that their time is running out, all these things resume their otherness, making him painfully aware that this isn’t what life is normally like. He’s being granted a wonder because it’s the holidays, he got a special permit to be this lazy, this happy. Nothing more than time off from his normal life. 

Waking up with Sherlock feels even more incredible now, like insane luck, too perfect to grasp. The waves seem to be louder this morning, just like they were on the first days, when John, Harry and Gemma had only just arrived here. When waking up to the sound of the sea held the infinite promise of holidays and summer, of carefree days away from everything. 

_The feeling of this holiday is knowing that — it’s the fucking holidays, and that it’ll be over too fucking soon,_ John thinks, and takes a deep breath. He remembers last night, how he woke up to an empty tent in the middle of the night and found Sherlock smoking on the bench. Sadness claims John again. Its cold, icy fingers leave a faint soreness in their wake, as if he was hurt. Now a constant, low ache remains; a relentless reminder of last night’s pain whenever he breathes. 

He tries to push these feelings away, only to remember their talk about the army instead. He can’t take back the words he said yesterday, the realisation that the army is the best option he has. And that he would, in fact, volunteer for service in a war zone. It hurts, it all hurts like fuck, but it’s true nonetheless. 

_No,_ John thinks defiantly. _No, I won’t spend the day like this, aching and worrying. For now, we’re still here. And we’ll make the fucking best of the time we’ve got left._

He rubs a hand across his face and avoids calculating the hours until they’ll take down their tent and get on the bus to Arcachon’s train station. 

Sherlock is facing away from him; John can’t tell if he’s awake. They are slotted together, Sherlock’s naked back, his buttocks and thighs against John’s belly and groin, warm skin against warm skin. He held Sherlock like this last night, after he stripped off his clothes and guided him to bed. He held Sherlock until his body wasn’t slack with hopelessness anymore, but resting against John’s, breathing comfort and closeness. 

_We’ll find a way,_ John whispered into Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock just squeezed John’s hand and kept it pressed against his beating heart, until he fell asleep in the darkness. The sea sounded louder as well, so loud that John wondered if a storm was coming up. Suddenly he’d been aware of the fact that their tent was only a thin, fragile shelter against the world outside. That they were basically sleeping on the bare earth, under an endless, open sky, and that all of this was only possible because it was summer. 

_We’ll find a way,_ he told himself once more, Sherlock in his arms. 

Now, John props himself up on one elbow and, lying on his side, runs two fingers down the long ridge of Sherlock’s spine. His fingers glide across every single vertebra and the strong muscles of his back. John is hard, his cock pressing lightly against Sherlock’s body, but then, he always is when they wake like this, naked, together. He remembers that he never sleeps naked at home. 

John considers grinding his hips against Sherlock, running his hands across his skin and seducing him, but he doesn’t. Maybe Sherlock is still feeling off-kilter after last night. 

But then Sherlock stirs, his breath deepens and comes faster. He turns his head just enough to look at John. He’s blurry-eyed, the strange night still showing in the shadows under his eyes. 

“Hey,” John whispers, trying not to disturb the frailty of the moment. It’s beautiful to watch Sherlock wake, those precious seconds he always needs to arrive in the reality of a new day. John leans down and presses his lips to that single curl on Sherlock’s nape, letting the soft hairs tickle his nose and lips. 

“You better?” John asks. 

There’s a beat of silence. John feels sleep’s soft pliancy fade from Sherlock’s body. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. He takes John’s hand, squeezing it lightly. He smiles, surprisingly bright. “Of course.” 

John smiles back, hoping that Sherlock really is better. 

“I need a coffee,” Sherlock says as he sits up. 

The sleeping bag slips down and John can see that Sherlock’s hard, too. John swallows down the need to reach out for Sherlock, to feel him and to take him apart, bit by bit, touch by touch. Maybe this just isn’t the time, John thinks, waiting for the duration of a breath for Sherlock to come closer. He waits for Sherlock to take a first step, to brush his fingertips across John’s skin until he finally draws him into an embrace, into a hungry kiss. But Sherlock doesn’t. 

John swallows, and in the end, they get dressed and step outside, starting to prepare coffee in silence before the girls are even up. 

“What do you want to do today?” Sherlock asks a few minutes later, still chewing a bite of his breakfast. They sit between the tents, the sand not cool anymore, and not yet warm against their skin. Patches of fine feathery clouds are strewn across the sky, and the wind has calmed down after the night. It’s the last days of August, and John can almost taste the end of summer in the air. 

“I don’t know. Just the usual?” John replies, thinking about the fact that until now, they never discussed how to spend their days here. Everything just happened — they let themselves be pulled to the ocean, and then drawn back to the beach to rest in the warm sand. The effortlessness of the past three weeks feels ridiculous now, as they’re about to slip back into their real lives. 

“Maybe I — maybe I’d just like to enjoy it. Make the fucking best of it,” John suggests with an expectant glance at Sherlock. “What do you think?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Sherlock says. The enthusiasm in his voice starts to make John restless. 

They finish breakfast faster than they have to, hurrying although no one is pushing them. It’s odd, John thinks, there’s nothing they have to accomplish today except enjoying the sun and the sea, the freedom and the fact that they’re together. When they arrive at the beach, squinting against the brightness, John finds that enjoying something isn’t all that easy when it’s expected of you. Even if it’s your own expectation. They’re the hardest ones to let go. 

He takes a deep breath and spreads his towel on the sand beneath the sunshade. He sits down and picks up his book, but not because he actually wants to read. He’s slightly bored by the crime novel, Sherlock was right about it on every point. But it feels right to read. It’s something utterly slow to do, and it allows him to let his thoughts stray while the sun heats his skin. Maybe even to sort them, to understand why everything feels so off today. When Sherlock suddenly gets up from his towel, John’s almost startled. 

“Swimming for a bit,” Sherlock says over his shoulder as he walks to the sea. John just watches him, only managing a _yeah, right_ when Sherlock’s almost out of earshot. John lets him go. Maybe it’s what he needs right now, swimming on his own. 

John watches him as his head vanishes into the ocean and then, after a few long moments, emerges again, further out. At some point, Sherlock is nothing more than a black dot amid the glistening waves. John tries not to lose track of him, but of course he does, eventually. For long minutes Sherlock’s gone, until John realises he was looking for him in the wrong direction, far too close to the beach. 

He holds his breath watching Sherlock from so far away. And then he understands that he’d better get used to it — to being fucking far away from him, out of reach, even. Will he be able to call Sherlock when he’s at boarding school? Can Sherlock talk in private there? They can send each other letters, can’t they? Does John have to be careful with what he writes, in case some idiot classmate steals them? 

He tries to picture the kind of letter he might get from Sherlock. He imagines it as a whirl of messy handwriting — a rant about the idiocy of a teacher, a detailed description of a chemical experiment Sherlock wants to conduct. Eddie and James casually saying hello, and maybe an exasperated line about his brother. A page of daydreaming about London and a review of the new Radiohead album. A ton of love and longing, perfectly hidden in subtext. 

John smiles. This is how it could work, he thinks. This is how it _has_ to work. This and the weekends, with just the two of them, against the rest of the fucking world. Warmth spreads inside him, matching the heat of the sun on his skin. 

He keeps watching Sherlock as long as he swims, out there, where there’s nothing but the drifting force of the waves and the wind, the burning strength of the sun, nothing but water and salt. Finally, Sherlock returns to the beach, his head above the waves slowly becoming bigger until he’s life-size again, real, and coming closer, back into John’s reach. 

Sherlock walks through the sand and brushes his wet hair from his face. His soaked trunks stick to his skin, giving away every contour, every line of his body. He’s still a few yards away, but John can see the goosebumps on his wet skin. 

He knows what it tastes like, the salty water on Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock meets his eyes as he comes closer, holding his gaze until he slumps down on his towel next to John. He’s out of breath, and he radiates the exhausted contentment of someone who ran a half-marathon just to sort through the mess of his emotions, to bring all thoughts into a coherent order. 

Sherlock takes their bottle of water, already warm from the sunshine. He drinks half of it in one greedy go, and as he sets it back down in the sand, he looks at John. Now there’s no smile, so overly happy it has to be fake. There’s only rock-hard clarity, and, on a second glimpse, sadness. John swallows as he recognises it — it’s the sadness of departure, of having to let go of each other, for now. Is this how Sherlock will suffer when he’s back at school in London? When John is in Winchester? 

But then Sherlock takes a deep breath and his expression changes, making his eyes shine with determination. He leans in and kisses John with sea-wet lips, tasting of salt and making John thirsty for more. 

John puts the open crime novel aside. He hasn’t read a single paragraph since Sherlock went swimming. They sit in the sand, looking at the sea in front of them. 

“You… needed some time to think?” John asks. He watches two gulls fly wide circles over the vast ocean, miniature flutters of white and grey against the blue sky, just as vast as the sea beneath them. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, but it lacks the bite. A moment later, he admits, “Took me longer than I anticipated.” 

“At least you didn’t need any weed,” John laughs in an attempt to keep the atmosphere light, to fight back the worries that are creeping into their talk, invading the space around them. 

Then, suddenly, he remembers something. He tries to catch the thought, to stop it from slipping away and vanishing in the depths of his unconscious before he even knows what it is exactly. He grins as he remembers, he can almost see the article he read about it, about some weird memory technique presented by a psychologist on the last page of a medical journal. 

“You know,” John finally tries, “you and your fucking brilliant mind. Why don’t you — organize it? You could picture your mind like a — like a real place, like a house, or a library, or an archive. With different rooms, for different kinds of memories. You could store your memories, neatly ordered on book shelves, or in folders. In fucking drawers. Indexed, even.” 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, so John goes on, “You wouldn’t have to remember the memory itself, but just the — the path how to find it. Where you stored it.” 

He swallows. Hearing it in his own voice, put into words that completely fail to convey the complexity and the genius of the idea, it sounds idiotic now. He must be making a fool of himself. But still he adds, “They said it would increase the efficiency of the human brain. And that it needs some practice until it works properly. But I don’t know, haven’t tried it. Maybe it’s just rubbish.” 

Next to him, Sherlock remains silent. After a full minute, John notices that he can‘t even hear him breathing, so he turns to Sherlock, only to find him squinting his eyes, lost in thought. 

John waits for a few more moments, already wondering if Sherlock even heard him. He’s almost about to ask if he’s okay, when Sherlock blurts out, “A palace.” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“It would have to be palace.” 

John huffs a laugh. 

“Okay,” he says, not at all sure that he understands. But apparently, this means that Sherlock doesn’t think this technique is rubbish, and John can’t help but grin, relieved, and surprised. 

Sherlock smiles at him for the briefest of moments. It’s just a flash of gratitude and appreciation, before he retreats into his mind again to explore this new idea. 

And so they don’t say anything for a long time. John just watches the sea while Sherlock is lost in thought next to him. The sea is deep blue and glistening, the waves crowned with crests of foam as they tumble against the beach. John’s sure that Sherlock isn’t taking notice of anything around him, but John sees enough for the two of them. Enough that he knows he’ll be able to conjure the image until the end of their days — sitting in the warm sand, feeling the sun and the wind on their skin, hearing the waves. Even feeling their gentle, relentless force as they lick against the shore, washing the fine, ochre sand back into the sea and leaving broken mussel shells in their wake. He’ll always be able to make Sherlock remember this, how they sat here, so close that they can feel each other breathe. 

— 

John tries his best to enjoy the day. 

They swim, later on, for a long time. They dive to the bottom of the sea, so far down that it’s almost lost in the murky blue and green of the Atlantic. John tries to estimate the depth, must be six or seven yards at least, but he can’t tell, not at all. With all the effort it takes to head down to the white sandy floor, he gladly forgets about what is going on in the world beyond the ocean. He wishes he could stay down here, let himself be swallowed by the sea. He dives down as often as he can, and he takes Sherlock with him. 

Under the sea, John watches Sherlock, his long slender body next to his own. He has the impression that it’s only the pressure of the water all around his body that keeps the love he feels for Sherlock contained in him — as if his body was too small to store the emotion, as if he’d pour it all out into the world if he was up at the surface. But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe it does seep out of him, out of every pore and through his skin, until it spreads into the whole fucking ocean and they dive in a bubble of everything he feels for him. Just like they did that night, when Sherlock showed him the sea sparkle. 

When they manage to reach the sea-bed for the first time, the sand yielding under their touch and churning into a cloud floating around their hands, they grin at each other. It feels as if they accomplished something great and unheard of. They turn, and push their feet into the soft ground to swim up towards the light again. 

They gasp for air as they breach the surface of the water. Going so deep takes them to their limits. They’ve hardly started to breathe normally again when they look at each other, eyes lighting with challenge, and dive down to the bottom again. They dive again, and again, and again — until they lose count of how often they’ve been down. They compete, each trying to be fastest, to hold his breath the longest. 

After a long time they emerge from the sea, already too tired to lift their heads much above the water, gasping for air. Sherlock grins; he seems happier than he has been all day, and the sight of him makes the icy ring of unease around John’s chest crack. Something’s been off since last night; something John can’t quite grasp. But for now, it’s gone, and John’s fucking relieved. He plunges forward and kisses Sherlock, feeling his ragged breaths in his own mouth. They still grin as they break the kiss, although Sherlock lowers his gaze a moment later, his smile beginning to fade, and then looks at the horizon. But he’s still there, still next to John. All John has to do is stretch out his hand and draw him into a kiss again, pulling him back into happiness. 

They dive until, at last, they can hardly catch their breath anymore, until their muscles and ears begin to ache. They turn and swim back, then drag themselves across the beach to their towels, their bodies heavy with exhaustion and their minds blank. 

Sherlock takes the bottle and offers it to John. Gratefully, John takes it, his throat burning with thirst. After Sherlock drinks, too, they sink down onto their towels. John turns his head to look at Sherlock. He stretches out his hand and takes Sherlock’s, still wet, moving slightly with the rhythm of Sherlock’s heaving chest. He holds it, holds Sherlock, and falls asleep. 

When John wakes after what feels like hours of sleep, he’s disoriented. He sits up quickly, somewhat shakily. He opens his eyes, only to be immediately blinded by the afternoon sun. He swallows, mouth dry, and for one unsettling instant, he’s lost, until he remembers where he is, what day it is, what time of day. 

His eyes flicker to Sherlock, curled on his side, his face hidden in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock’s hand is still stretched out to John, but already too far away to touch. Sherlock must have slipped away from him during sleep. 

John blinks against the weariness and the bright sunlight. They should get up and go back to the campsite, sit in the shade for a bit. But he’s too tired to move, and Sherlock’s still asleep. He swallows again, then takes the last sip from the bottle, warm like spit. 

He can see that Sherlock is sweating, the skin on his shoulders faintly red. Without thinking, he leans down to kiss Sherlock, just a kiss on his hair. Then he sits up and looks at the sea, still too tired to think or do anything. It takes ages until he’s really awake and feels like his usual self. 

Finally Sherlock stirs. John almost thinks he has fallen asleep again when he turns on his back, shielding his face from the sun with one hand. 

“Hey,” John says, and smiles, glad to see him again. _Why do things always feel so much better when he wakes._

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before he opens them. 

“Hey,” he replies, voice low, throaty, sleepy. 

John watches him like he just watched the sea. He lets the impressions wash over him, soaking them up until they fill him, completely. Every minor detail of the ocean and of Sherlock, encapsulated and preserved in every cell of his being. The pattern of the waves, the breath of the sea. The rhythm of Sherlock’s movements, the flutter in his carotid, giving away the tumbling force of his heart. John’s smile spreads through the whole of his body. 

Then his gaze drops to Sherlock’s shoulders, and he finds the blush of sunburn growing stronger. 

“We should get you into the shade, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock furrows his brow, then cranes his neck until he can see his shoulders. 

“Obviously,” he agrees, and rises to his feet, stretching. 

Up at the campsite, they slump into the sand between their tents. Still tired, they crave the breezy coolness of the half-shade, the gentle flicker of sunlight between the dancing twigs of the pines. They find two new bottles of water and two apples the girls bought yesterday. 

Chewing the apple John realises he’s hungry. It must be past noon already, and the apple isn’t nearly enough. He wonders where the girls are, and if they should have lunch together. 

They find Harry and Gemma at the terrace of the campsite restaurant; books, half-written postcards and empty coffee mugs on the table in front of them. Gemma rests her feet in Harry’s lap, lounging in her chair with her eyes closed, while Harry reads the newspaper, stifling a yawn. 

_The last days of these holidays, and we have every fucking right to be this lazy,_ John thinks, pushing the thought of homework, exams and hours spent reading textbooks aside. 

“Hey, Harry. You already had lunch?” John asks. 

“No,” Harry replies, yawning again. “But it sounds like a good idea. Come and sit down, you two.” 

They order a croque monsieur each. They eat slowly, and John watches Sherlock lick molten butter from his fingers. They have a coffee to fight the weariness, and, after John checks how much money he has left, another one. They talk for a bit, but it seems to John as if they’re carefully avoiding everything that has to do with home, with going back to school or starting work, everything that will happen after the day after tomorrow. Or maybe it’s just John doing that. 

When the girls leave to go swimming, Sherlock takes the cigarettes out of his pocket. John watches him, meeting his eyes, bright and silvery-green. He has to think of what Sherlock said, the other night at the campfire, when they kissed in front of the others for the first time. 

_Do you know that I smoked a cigarette whenever I wanted to kiss you?_

Holding Sherlock’s gaze, John takes a deep breath and puts his hand on the pack of cigarettes. And then he leans in to kiss him. 

Sherlock’s surprised, John can feel it in the way he hesitates. John already wonders if he’ll draw back, if it’s too much, right here. But Sherlock doesn’t. He kisses back, opening his lips and brushing his tongue against John’s for a beat. John closes his eyes. 

“Now we can have that cigarette,” John says in a low voice as they break the kiss. Sherlock smiles, still surprised, and radiating that brand of happiness of somebody who watches his lover do something outstanding from afar. 

They share the cigarette in silence. It’s perfect with the coffee, it’s perfect now, as they sit here. He looks at Sherlock, feeling so fucking close to him after everything they’ve done during the last few days. All those talks. The sex; his heart beats faster at the thought of it. He keeps watching Sherlock, who’s staring at the blue stripe of the sea behind the pines, exhaling light grey smoke, only moving when they hand on the cigarette. John wonders if Sherlock feels the same, if he’s as happy as John is. Sherlock notices that he’s being watched, and when he hands John the cigarette, he smiles at him, lopsidedly. 

_He is,_ John thinks. _He is._

It’s quiet; the hot, drowsy hours after lunch. After a while, Arnel comes out of the empty shop next to the restaurant. He grins at the two of them, sits down and takes out a pack of loose tobacco and Rizla papers. He starts rolling a cigarette with practised ease. 

Sherlock flips open their pack of cigarettes, takes one out and lights it, looking at John. 

_What it would be like to kiss him again,_ John wonders, not in front of a group of people, but one person, someone who knows them. Who can’t evade the sight of them, and who knows how much a kiss between two boys in public means. John glances at Sherlock while he and Arnel talk about studying, about politics, and the University of Bordeaux. 

Sherlock meets John’s gaze as he passes him the cigarette, and holds it long enough to make John’s heart jump. It would feel even more like — being out as a couple. A couple who has friends they’re comfortable with. 

But the moment passes, Arnel goes on talking. Sherlock looks the other way, not radiating the ease that would invite John to try kissing him in front of Arnel, somewhat out of the blue. John feels stupid for having considered it, and so he just sits there and smokes, trying to listen to their talk. 

Arnel han’t even finished smoking when two elderly women walk up the street and enter the shop. Arnel gets up, quickly grinding his cigarette. 

“ _Excuse, j’ai des clients._ Better get back to work. See you tonight?” 

“Course,” Sherlock replies. “See you.” 

As Arnel vanishes into the shop, Sherlock hands the cigarette to John to drag on one last time. John takes it and puts it to his lips, inhaling the smoke. He feels the heat of the glow closing in, almost burning his fingers as he pulls. 

“Let’s have a shower,” John suggests after grinding out the cigarette, not knowing he wanted to do this before he said it. 

Ten minutes later, they’re at the shower house; it’s as calm as the whole campsite at this hour. Their last fresh shirts, boxers and toiletries are tucked on the small bench against the wall that divides the changing room from the showers. John feels Sherlock’s gaze on his body as he undresses. His breathing and every movement he makes echoes loudly in the tiled room; his barefooted steps on the floor, the sound of his clothes as he drops them on the bench. Sherlock’s already on his way to the shower, towel slung across his shoulder. John stands for a moment, watching the vee of his back, his long legs, and his arse. 

John hurries after him. In the shower next to him he turns on the tap, facing the tiles. He washes mechanically, quickly, leaving himself almost no time to glance at Sherlock. Almost. 

Still, out of the corner of his eye he watches him washing his hair, rinsing it, mouth open. He’s so fucking beautiful. John nudges the tap so the water gets a little colder. 

John washes the shower gel off his body, seeing his own tan stand out against the white skin usually hidden by the trunks. He pictures him and Sherlock, lying naked in the sand out at the sandbank, like the only fucking people on this planet. No tan lines, no one they’d have to be quiet for, no one who’d care. There’d be nothing but them, no clothes, no towels, just Sherlock’s hands on his body, gently rubbing sand across the skin as he touches him. 

Shit, he’s getting hard. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling. 

Suddenly he feels Sherlock’s hands on his chest and belly, just like he pictured an instant ago, but they’re wet, slippery. Sherlock’s body is pressing against his back, he’s right behind him. John didn’t hear him come closer. He turns around and finds Sherlock still naked, dripping with warm water, a patch of foam still smudged against his neck. 

But it’s the look in Sherlock’s eyes that makes his pulse speed up; the moment he catches Sherlock’s gaze he knows what Sherlock wants, what he craves. 

He craves _him._

The next instant Sherlock is kissing him, shoving him back against the wet tiles. He brushes his tongue against John’s, impatient and needy. Water from the shower runs down their faces, into their mouths as they kiss, mixing with their saliva. It’s a beautiful, messy kiss, uninhibited and hungry. It’s a new version of Sherlock that John feels here, and he’s overwhelmed by its raw power. 

For a moment, he nearly forgets where he is. In the back of his mind he realises that apparently, they feel safe enough with each other to let themselves fall into sex like this, to explore further, to explore the rough side of desire. It makes John grin into the kiss, he’s almost ready to have Sherlock right here and now, when reason finally gets the upper hand. John drags him away from the shower, throws a towel at him and makes him hurry back to their tent. 

The tents are deserted, the girls gone, down at the beach, likely away for the next few hours. John and Sherlock glance at each other, almost at the same time, and find one another’s eyes darkening with desire. Without another word, they crawl inside. Sherlock zips the tent door closed and turns to John, already taking off his shirt. 

John needs to touch him. He holds his breath as he runs his fingers across Sherlock’s collarbones and down to his nipples. He doesn’t go slowly, he lets his desire and impatience show in every touch. Sherlock’s breath hitches, and John leans forward, closes his lips around his nipple, and sucks it. Now there’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a rumbling sigh. The nipple tightens in his mouth and he sucks it again, harder. 

With deft, quick fingers Sherlock opens the button and fly of his shorts. John lets go of him, just enough for Sherlock to slip his long legs out of his shorts, and then he’s naked. He hadn’t even bothered to put on boxers as they hurried from the showers. 

Sherlock kisses him again, digging his long fingers into John’s skin, leaning into him until they both lose their balance. They fall on the floor, shoving aside Sherlock’s backpack, barely managing to pull an empty water bottle from under John’s back before he slumps down. 

Sherlock’s on him immediately, kissing him and sliding a hand into his jeans, not even taking the time to open them. He finds John’s hard cock, wraps his fingers around it and starts working it. John groans and shoves down his jeans and, with a sigh, lets his legs fall open. 

John lets Sherlock do whatever he wants with him. He just flows with the movements of Sherlock’s fingers on his cock, of his body pressing against his own. He lets his hands roam over Sherlock’s back with silent praise, communicating approval and affection and need with dancing, grazing fingers. Sherlock’s skin is warm and sunburnt. John pictures his fingers leaving white marks there for a beat, before blood flushes back in, colouring the skin light red again. He leans up, and licks against Sherlock’s shoulders, suddenly needing to feel this heat with the inside of his mouth. 

John hears his own panting in the small tent. He feels the warm air on his tongue as Sherlock kisses his neck, his jaw, his lips, as he licks into John’s mouth and fucking conquers him. John goes completely pliant underneath him. He lets himself be had; he can’t do anything but comply and melt in Sherlock’s arms, merely reacting to every action of his. 

Sherlock’s hand on his cock goes faster, a little harder. John loses track of what Sherlock is doing there. He doesn’t even try to touch him anymore, to trade caress for caress, sensation for sensation. 

Sherlock’s breath is warm on his neck, against his ear, hard and fast, just like his own. He can tell how this arouses Sherlock, his cock is pressed against his thigh, leaking, demanding. It makes John groan even harder, but he stifles it; tries to, at least. 

Sherlock grazes his fingers across the tip of John’s cock, and he must know exactly what this is doing to him. John bites his lips. He tries to stay quiet although he’s bursting, but Sherlock whispers into his ear, “I want to hear you, John.” 

Hearing this, Sherlock’s voice ragged and honest, John gasps. The surge of lust pulsing through his body almost makes him come. 

He takes a breath, deep and long, hesitating to abandon his self-obligation to quiet. After silently praying for nobody to come near their tent now, he lets go. He sighs shakily under Sherlock’s touch, he fucking moans as Sherlock sucks his earlobe and that sensitive spot on his neck. He pants and pleads his name against the finger Sherlock shoves into his mouth. 

John shivers as tension fades from his body, an internalised control he didn’t even know he held over himself. He lets all his exhales be heard now, broken and frantic. He listens to his own voice, the want and the lust it carries. Sherlock breathes faster, harder as he hears him; how John’s exhales turn into gasps. 

“God,” Sherlock breathes against his lips, licks between them one more time, and then, finally, he dives down and takes John’s cock into his mouth. 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John moans hoarsely. He’s barely able to stop himself from thrusting into Sherlock’s mouth. He watches Sherlock’s head bent over his groin, moving up and down on his cock. He doesn’t miss how Sherlock slides one hand down between his long legs to stroke his own cock, rough and desperate, no time and no need for gentleness. 

John gives up, and starts to push into Sherlock’s mouth. Just a few times, that’s all it needs, a few thrusts into wetness and heat, tongue and teeth and fucking suction. He comes with a low sob, hands clasped over his face in ecstasy. 

The whole fucking time he keeps him in his mouth with a gentleness that John wouldn’t have expected. Even as John comes down, trembling, Sherlock’s touch is so light and tender that John barely even notices how he glides into over-sensitivity. 

John’s still panting, but calmer now, opening his eyes again to look at Sherlock. Sherlock sits up a bit, shifts and straddles John’s hips, bending down to kiss him once more. John tastes himself there, acidic and bitter. 

Now Sherlock wraps his hand around his cock, and the raggedness of his movements gives away how much he needs it. John puts his hand on it, smearing a thumb across the wet head, thinking how he fucking loves touching him. He fucking adores Sherlock’s cock. 

They move together, getting him off, and Sherlock’s breath hitches, he’s panting from one moment to the next. He leans his forehead against John’s, whispering, “God, _God_ —”, over and over again. 

John watches their hands around Sherlock’s cock. It’s delicious, fucking beautiful, arousing him even though he’s sated. 

Sherlock goes faster, and when he tightens his grip around his cock, John follows his lead, does the same. When Sherlock finally loses his rhythm, John keeps it. He works Sherlock until he comes, panting and gasping John’s name against his lips, kissing him with the need of a drowning man for air. John feels Sherlock spurt hot and wet on his belly and chest. 

After long moments, Sherlock sinks down against John’s shoulders, catching his breath, still straddling him. John brushes a kiss against his neck, slips his hand into the narrow, warm space between their bodies, and touches Sherlock’s come on his skin. He rubs it, gently, spreading on his stomach and on his sternum. Again, it feels as if he could keep Sherlock this way, imprinted on his skin. 

Sherlock goes very still above him, taking in what John is doing. He opens his mouth and takes a breath, as if about to say something, but he doesn’t. John only stops when Sherlock’s come is nothing but a breath of moisture on his skin, slightly sticky as it dries, reminding him of what they just did. 

John tilts his head, finds Sherlock’s silent lips and kisses him. They stay like this until they lose any feeling for how much time has passed. Until their limbs ache with how they’re pressed together, against the hard tent floor. Neither of them speaks, both lost in their own thoughts. 

“You’re quiet today,” John says after a long time, voice low, not interrupting their quiet intimacy. With a low rustle they shift and change positions, until Sherlock is on his side, facing the other way. John holds him, his chest against Sherlock’s back, their legs slotted together. 

“Yes,” is all Sherlock replies. 

For the rest of the afternoon, they keep slipping in and out of wordlessness. They sit on the bench or lie in the sand between their tents. John tries to read, but still he can’t quite focus on the novel. Sherlock skims through yesterday’s newspaper, not even paying attention to the headlines. 

Sometimes they exchange a few words; murmured questions like _Eat something?_ or _Cigarette?,_ followed by nods or headshakes, or a hand pressed to the other’s in reply, before a piece of baguette is passed over, or a cigarette is lit with a low crackle. 

As the hours pass, John notices how the light changes and clears up above the sea. Gradually, the shadows sharpen, drawing the outlines of the pines on the eggshell sand as if cut with a knife. The brightness of the air seems to pull the horizon closer to the shore, making everything around them look even more real. Clouds gather in the distance, grey and big. They’re no summer clouds; they resemble those that cover the sky on a late September morning. It’s the end of summer, and John can feel autumn lurking in the coolness of the wind. 

Sherlock goes for a walk eventually; John watches him from the bench. Sherlock wears his sunglasses and the pair of shorts John has hurriedly put on a few times himself. John watches him look out at the sea, then bend down and pick up something small from the wet sand, a shell, a starfish, maybe, or a stone. It feels so much like the first days here, when John tried to read and ended up staring at Sherlock in the distance. He was already falling in love, although they’d barely talked back then. It feels like a lifetime ago, not like two and a half weeks. 

The holidays are drawing to an end, in spite of John’s attempts to drag out this day as much as possible, to enjoy it as much as he can. It doesn’t really work, enjoying this second-to-last day. It upsets John more than he’d like to admit. In fact, he’s shaken, he realises, shaken to the core. Everything that has happened here, it’s so big, fucking massive. It’s changing his life, it’s changing who he is. When he leaves to go home in two days, he’ll be a different boy than he was when he came here. 

Actually he’ll need some time to let it all sink in, to fucking _breathe._ To understand the whole impact that being in love with Sherlock has on him, and will have on his life. But they don’t have any fucking time. All they have left are the few remaining hours of today, and tomorrow, and then Saturday, on the train. John takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand across his face. There’ll be plenty of time to think later; he’ll have to catch up on understanding when he’s back home. 

He looks at the sea rushing against the bright beach, at Sherlock walking along the shore, the wind playing with his hair. In the middle of all his questions — how will they go on from here, Sherlock and him? How can he make sure he’ll go to med school? What kind of life is he going to live? — there’s a calm spot in his heart, like an island in the middle of a storm-lashed sea. It’s solid ground, a safe haven, and it’s something he’ll always be able to come back to, to find rest and comfort when he needs it. 

It’s his certainty about being with Sherlock. 

He watches him. _That’s him. That’s my man._

John’s mouth twists into a defiant, proud smile. He turns to the things Sherlock left next to him on the bench, takes a cigarette from the pack and lights it. 

_I’d like to kiss you now. I need to taste what reminds me of you._

It’s the first time he’s smoked without Sherlock. But he looks at him walking along the beach. If he closes his eyes, he can almost sense him beside him, hear his voice, feel the touch of his leg against his own. It doesn’t feel like smoking on his own. He hopes it will still feel like this when they’re back in England. 

John has long finished the cigarette when Harry comes up the sandy slope of the hill. She’s wearing a billowy white t-shirt over her bikini, dampening where the fabric of the bikini is still wet. 

“Hey, Johnny,” she says, a little out of breath. “Had a nice afternoon?” 

She sits down next to him, running a hand through her short, wet hair. She leans against the backrest, and together they look at the sea and the beach down below. 

“Sure,” John replies after a moment. 

“Yeah, holiday’s almost over,” Harry sighs, and hearing this from her makes it more real. He can’t pretend this day is like all the other ones — they’re leaving the day after tomorrow. It’s too fucking soon, and too fucking painful. 

“You’re okay with it?” he asks, trying to sound easy. 

He looks at her. Grains of sand are dusted across the skin of her naked legs, catching in the fine white blond hairs, barely visible if it wasn’t for the sunlight making them glisten. 

“Yes,” she says, playing with the bracelet Gemma gave her. “I mean, it’s a pity to leave, it’s fucking wonderful here. But it’s always sad to go home after the holidays, isn’t it?” 

She smiles at John. In spite of the sadness she just mentioned, she radiates happiness, barely tinged by end-of-holidays melancholy. John forces himself to smile back, doing his best not to let it show how much the prospect of leaving fills him with dread. After a moment that’s hopefully long enough not to make it look as if he was evading her, he turns to look at the sea again. He still feels her gaze, but he doesn’t reply to her question, pretending it’s purely rhetorical. 

“You’re a bit quiet today,” Harry states, watching the sea again. 

His first impulse is to say _No, I’m not,_ but fuck, he is quiet. And of course Harry’s noticed, and she’d probably understand him. Yet he can’t find the words to describe all the things he feels, the things that worry him. It’s too much, too new. Far too raw. 

John realises that Harry’s words are almost the same that he’d said to Sherlock earlier. He swallows, wondering if Sherlock, too, is weighed down with something he isn’t ready to tell John. 

He glances at Harry, meeting her eyes for a fraction of a second, then nods. He knows she’s watching him. She keeps watching him until he looks at her again, finally holding her gaze. He takes a deep breath, pressing his lips closed, choking with all the words he can’t say. 

“Tell him, John,” Harry says calmly. “Bet you haven’t said a fucking word about how much you’ll miss him.” 

John bites his lips, raises his eyebrows. 

“Guess I should.” 

He wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say to Sherlock. _I might sign up for the fucking Army, but you know, Sherlock, when we part in two days, I’ll miss you so much it’ll break my heart._

He tries not to hate himself for the choices he’ll have to make, and he tries not to hate his life for making him choose. He prays for a fucking miracle, that he’ll find a way to have both, Sherlock and the chance to become a doctor. 

Harry leans against him, the contact gently tearing him out of his thoughts. She’s warm and familiar against him, pinching his thigh as she says, “You really should, Johnny.” 

He huffs a breath that could mean, _You’re fucking right, Harry, and I will;_ and that could also mean, _Tell me how to do it and I’ll do it. Tell me how to solve the fucking dilemma of my life._ He doesn’t clarify. He doesn’t even fucking know what he actually wants to say. 

He stares out at the grey-blue waves instead and after a minute, he says, “You’re moving in with Gemma next week.” 

He casts her a sideways glance. She’s smiling, biting her lip, just like he does sometimes. 

“Are you happy?” John asks. 

She closes her eyes for a moment, leaning her head against him. When she opens them again, she’s beaming. 

“Yes, I am. I’ve been waiting for this for fucking years, and now I can’t believe it’s really going to happen.” 

John’s glad it’s Harry’s life they’re talking about now. 

“But you said you’d only been dating for two months,” he wonders. 

“I couldn’t fucking wait to leave home though. And of course I’d hoped I’d move in with a beautiful girl I’m in love with.” 

She grins, and John can’t help but smile as well. She looks at him and her grey eyes grow softer, the grin changing into a smile, the kind of smile that never fails to touch him where he’s most vulnerable. 

“Johnny, you and Sherlock, you’ll get there as well. One more year and then you’re free to do whatever you want.” 

The happiness John borrowed from Harry for a handful of minutes starts to fade, the icy ache of worry quickly taking its place in John’s chest. 

“I fucking hope so.” 

— 

They get a little drunk, later, in the indigo darkness of the night, closing in around them at campfire. They’re all there — James, Eddie and his French girl, Arnel, Harry and Gemma. There are a dozen or so other people; some familiar to John, others not. There are still new guests arriving at the campsite, but the number of new tents being set up is much lower than those being taken down. Since last Saturday, more and more spaces on the campsite are empty. 

Staring at the fire in front of him, John tries to ignore the fact that tomorrow morning it’s going to be Eddie and James who leave. This is the last day, the last night that is like — like all the others they’ve spent here. Tomorrow will already be different. He stretches out his hand to Sherlock sitting next to him, threading his fingers between his, as if trying to keep him from slipping away. 

Someone brought a ghettoblaster, and Harry and Gemma dance whenever they hear a song they like. Eddie and his girl dance as well, smiling at each other, touching constantly, and kissing. 

John watches them and considers asking Sherlock to go back to their tent for his CDs. He has another sip of wine as he thinks about it, surprised that the bottle he and Sherlock shared is empty already. 

He stops dead as he understands that he’s actually searching for the blur of alcohol. He hoped that it would soften the chaos in his mind, and silence the questions that won’t let him rest. In fact, he’s just about to tip over from having a good time with his friends to getting drunk because he’s fucking overwhelmed. How the fuck could this happen, he wonders, raking a hand through his hair. It’s been just two weeks since he got fucking pissed out of pure helplessness. What an idiot he was to think that this would never happen again. 

With slightly trembling hands, he places the bottle in the ochre sand in front of his feet. He stares at it for a moment, the dancing firelight reflected in the green glass, then he glances at Sherlock. Sherlock watches him, holding his gaze even as he lets go of John’s hand to brush a curl from his forehead, his hand casting a fleeting shadow on his face. He takes John’s hand again and holds it more tightly. 

_He understands,_ John thinks, foolishly grateful and relieved. With a low sigh, John leans in, brushing a quick kiss against Sherlock’s lips. When he draws back, Sherlock gives him a small smile, but it’s still tinged with the sadness that’s been lingering there since last night. 

The music dies down, the song is over, and a new one begins. It sounds like the French band they heard two nights ago, Indochine. Sherlock’s eyes lighten as he recognises it. After a few beats, he sings along, adding a second voice to the song. It’s barely more than a murmur, but so much more real than the singer from the speakers of the ghettoblaster. 

_La nuit est noir et sans espoir  
et sa présence me manque. _

Sherlock’s voice is low, deep and beautiful, barely audible over the chatter of the others. It matches the melancholy of the song. John thinks that he understands the meaning of the lyrics — _the night is dark and hopeless, and I miss his presence._

He runs his thumb across the back of Sherlock’s hand. He feels Sherlock, he’s here, physically. But all day John had the impression that some part of Sherlock is just fading away. Now, there’s a lump in John’s throat, too big to swallow against. 

Biting his lips and lost for what to do or say, John watches Harry and Gemma. They dance barefoot in the sand, in the half-light between the fire and the clear night, the last of sunset’s green-blue sky fading into the inky night. They sway with the music, their hands touching. The light of the flames makes their skin gleam. It makes Harry’s short hair shimmer like gold against the warm cinnamon shade of Gemma’s when Harry leans in to kiss her. 

John takes a deep breath. He wants this with Sherlock, now. He wants to dance with him and try to turn their sadness into something beautiful, maybe even let it be lifted off them with the next song. He prays it will be a happier, more hopeful one. 

* 

He’s just about to ask Sherlock to dance with him, when voices from further down the dune disrupt the night. It must be a bunch of drunk men, John guesses, maybe three or four. Their shouts and guffaws are louder than the music, louder than the people talking and laughing around the campfire. 

When they appear at the fire, John glances at them as he listens to Arnel and James talking. It’s three men, just a few years older than him, speaking French. They’re drunk as hell, their speech is slurred, roaring with laughter. They reel as they come closer. He squints his eyes; he has the feeling that he saw them before, at the campsite. 

One of the men kicks a beer bottle right into the fire, nearly tripping over it, grabbing his friend’s arm just in time to catch himself. Foamy beer spills out of the bottle, hissing as it meets the embers. Immediately there’s a sickly smell of warm beer. 

The teenagers sitting in the sand closest to them look up, surprise written all over their faces. 

_Fucking drunk,_ John thinks, tensing. _Hope these guys won’t be more trouble than this._

He watches them, trying to predict what they’re up to. Sherlock has gone very still next to him, hand still in his, the grip firm. 

The French men talk, still far too loud; John guesses from their shrieking laughter that they’re making shitty jokes. They scan the people gathered around the fire. The chatter is dying down. John glances at Harry and Gemma, still dancing, although more slowly now, and not touching any more. John exhales with relief. He almost feared the drunk idiots might say something, try and cause trouble. 

The three drunk men seem to be disappointed at the sight of the easy group of people sitting or dancing by the fire. They’re just about to leave, when one of them meets John’s eye and looks at him for a moment, squinting his eyes, mouth open. John can feel the man’s gaze drop from his face to his hand, still holding Sherlock’s. 

_Oh shit,_ he thinks, and holds Sherlock tighter. 

“ _Oh merde! Revoilà les petits pédés!”_ the man calls, clearly enthusiastic that he has found someone to fuck with, pointing at Sherlock and him. John doesn’t understand every word, but he gets the meaning: _Shit! Look, there are the queers again!_

“ _T’as raison, Jérôme. Putain de pédé!”_ one of the others replies, slurring his words, staggering in the sand as he, too, stretches out his hand to point at John. 

“ _On aime bien se faire enculer, hein?”_ the third man cries with a vulgar gesture of his hand, then pushing his hips up to his friend’s arse. By now, everybody around the fire has turned their heads either to John and Sherlock or to the drunk men. 

Within an instant, John’s heart pounds deafeningly in his chest and he’s up on his feet, already taking three steps towards the men. He clenches his fist, anger singing in his body, adrenaline erasing the dizziness of alcohol. He doesn’t need any fucking translation to know what this is about. 

“Fucking say that again,” John hisses through his clenched teeth, voice dangerously low, taking another step closer to the French men. 

“ _Ooh, on défend son petit chéri?”_ one of them mocks. It’s the one who spotted John and started all this shit. He’s a head taller than him, heavier too. And yet John would have him down on the ground within a second. 

“ _Ta gueule, imbécile,”_ Sherlock snarls. John understands immediately. _Shut your mouth, idiot._

John notices only now that Sherlock’s standing right beside him, very upright, wide stance, a look of icy disgust in his eyes. 

Everybody at the fire seems to hold their breath. 

_If any of those fuckers touches Sherlock, I’ll— I’ll—,_ John thinks, ready to grab the guy by the collar, ready to punch him, when he hears Arnel’s voice. 

“ _Pas de ça ici,”_ Arnel says, looking at the intruders. His voice is cold, and very clear. Suddenly he sounds ten years older, bearing an authority John has never noticed on him before. Arnel’s still wearing his staff t-shirt. John is surprised by how calm he is. 

Now John realises that James and Eddie have risen to their feet as well, standing next to Arnel — and next to Harry and Gemma, just behind him and Sherlock. 

_They’re like a wall,_ he thinks, a flash of warmth surging through his body. _A fucking wall of — of friends._

“ _Je vous ai vu arriver au camp lundi,”_ Arnel goes on, voice clipped with determination, leaving no room for questions or discussion. _“Déguerpissez ou je vous dénonce aux proprios. Vous pourrez faire une croix sur vos vacances et on ira discuter de tout ça avec la police!”_

John understands too little, he turns to Sherlock, who translates in a quick cascade of words. 

“We don’t do that here. I’ve seen you on the campsite, you arrived on Monday. Leave now, or I’ll report you to the owners, and then your holiday here is over, and we’ll settle this whole thing with the police.” 

The three men stare at Arnel in surprise for a whole minute, drunkenly swaying back and forth. One of them mutters something under his breath, and they exchange a few words, looking at each other. 

The first one glares at Arnel. He spits into the sand, his eyes never leaving Arnel, but finally he turns to walk away. The other two follow on his heels, staring daggers at Arnel, John and Sherlock. A minute later, they’re gone, swallowed by the night. 

John takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It takes two more until he manages to unclench his fist. 

He’s still breathing fast, his heartbeat thundering in his body when he turns to Sherlock, who looks at him, lips drawn into a thin line, brow knitted. He’s as angry as John. The longer their gazes meet, the more the hardness fades from Sherlock’s face, and finally, he smiles at John, cautiously. To John’s surprise, Sherlock even brushes his fingers against John’s. 

John exhales, and looks at the spot where the idiots vanished into the darkness. He can’t tear himself away. 

_If that’s — if_ that’s _what it’s going to be like, being with Sherlock,_ he thinks, suddenly grim again, _well, then fuck you all. Don’t think for one minute this is going to stop me._

He feels a hand on his arm, and turns. 

“Eh, _Jean. Vas-y._ Come and sit with us.” 

** 

It’s Arnel, calm and friendly, a cigarette between his lips. He nods to the others, to Harry, Gemma, Eddie and James, who are just sitting down. Even Sherlock is on his way back, although he stops after a few steps, looking for John. John meets his gaze, than looks at Arnel, finding him smiling. John swallows and nods. 

John sits down between Sherlock and Arnel. He digs his fingers into the sand, grinding it in his fist. 

“Thank you, Arnel,” he finally says. 

“ _De rien, ami,”_ Arnel replies, rolling a cigarette. John’s too wound up to be really confused by this, he dimly registers that Arnel is still smoking his own cigarette. He watches him lick the long side of the cigarette paper and close the cigarette. He picks a few crumbs of tobacco from his lips, then hands the cigarette to John. 

When John just blinks, Arnel says with a low, rumbling laugh, “Smoke. Don’t worry. It’s just tobacco, no weed.” 

“Thanks,” John says, and smiles back. He turns to Sherlock. 

Sherlock is staring into the flames in front of them, lost in thought. He’s rasping his fingers through the sand, tension still holding him in its grip. 

_Oh no,_ John thinks, _he’s been so fucking far away all day. Not again. Not now. I need him here, with me._

“Hey, Sherlock,” he says, gently tearing Sherlock away from what must be the gloominess lurking in his mind, drowning him in shadow. “Where’s your lighter?” 

Sherlock looks at him, taking in John’s face as if just seeing it for the first time. His eyes lighten, but not fully. He drops his gaze to the cigarette in John’s hand, and John can see how he puzzles the information together at lightning speed, glancing at Arnel. Finally, he gets the lighter out of his pocket. 

John smiles. Sherlock’s back, he thinks, at least a bit. 

John is almost about to put the cigarette between Sherlock’s lips, when Sherlock leans in to kiss him with a fierce look. He never lifts his gaze off John, and just before his lips meet John’s, he whispers, “You’re… you’re everything, John. Everything I’ll ever…” — but he trails off, and closes the last inch between them, pulling John into a deep kiss. 

Sherlock opens his lips, letting John in, brushing their tongues together as John kisses back. He sighs against Sherlock’s lips, and the last bit of tension seeps from his body. 

Everybody can see them, but when they break the kiss what feels like ages later, nothing happens. Not that John had expected anything, but he can’t help but listen for a murmur from the other people sitting around the fire, a whisper of disapproval from those who don’t know them that well, talking behind their backs. Then he glances at the faces of their friends. They’re talking, Eddie and Gemma aren’t even taking any notice of him and Sherlock. James nods, and Harry and Arnel flash him a smile when they catch his gaze. 

John looks back at Sherlock. His eyes are dark, brimming with an emotion John can’t fathom. 

_What is it that you’re not telling me, Sherlock,_ John thinks, immediately startled at the thought. But then a small smile softens Sherlock’s eyes, and he plucks the cigarette John is still holding from his fingers, and puts it between John’s lips. 

John’s heart clenches at this, and he doesn’t even understand why. 

Sherlock leans in to light it, gently trailing his thumb across John’s cheek as he pulls on the cigarette. John exhales, puts the cigarette aside and pulls Sherlock closer to brush a kiss against his lips, just to — to _show_ him. To show him what he means to him. _You’re fucking everything for me, too, Sherlock._

They sit at the fire until the rush of adrenaline subsides, watching the flames flicker and cast a warm light on their faces. 

John feels closer to Sherlock than he has all day, even when they had sex. They share their cigarette, and when it’s finished, Sherlock wordlessly takes John’s hand and holds it. John shifts closer, and their shoulders touch. Sherlock feels so warm, so alive. So fucking real. It’s hard to imagine there’ll be days when John won’t touch him. 

They laugh, both of them, at the jokes Harry cracks, at the stories from school Eddie suddenly comes up with. The others talk, slightly euphoric after what has happened. It’s as if they’re high on relief, drunk on the pride that they’ve stood their ground, and that they stood up against something wrong and made a difference. That there’s hope that things will change, one day. 

Eventually, Harry and Eddie’s voices fade into a low stream of chatter, meandering through the night, carrying stories and happiness and unheard anecdotes. John grows tired, not listening anymore, just lets their talk wash around him as he leans against Sherlock. His limbs feel heavy and for a long time, getting up and walking back to the tent seems like too much effort. 

“Hey, you can’t sleep here, John,” Sherlock says as John closes his eyes. 

_Just for one minute,_ John thinks, _just for one fucking minute._

Sherlock’s voice is a low whispered caress right next to his ear, almost too comforting to even open his eyes. 

“Come on now,” Sherlock insists, getting up, the side of John’s body where Sherlock just sat suddenly without his warmth. 

“Alright,” John groans. They say good-bye to the others who are still talking and walk back to the campsite. 

The sea looks more of a mystery tonight than John ever remembers it. It’s dark, charcoal waves with white crowns of froth drawn to the shore by a breeze that gets cooler by the minute. It seems to be a giant living thing. It’s touching the beach, touching and touching it, and nobody knows what it’s up to, what secrets it holds in its depths. At what point of time it will decide to unveil them. 

The stars are hidden by ragged graphite shreds of clouds, as if someone had torn a thick layer of stratocumulus into a hundred scraps and thrown them back into the sky. John remembers that he wanted to show the milky way to Sherlock. He wonders if he’ll get the chance while they’re still here. 

He takes Sherlock’s hand, and holds it, and listens to his breathing, in sync with the waves rolling slowly in on the beach. 

When they arrive at the campsite, out of breath from climbing up the slope and still holding hands, John catches himself scanning the place. There’s no-one around. 

They quietly get their toothbrushes and towels from the tent. John is tired, but the idea of falling asleep with the taste of cigarettes in his mouth is disgusting. The light at the shower house is too bright, so he squints his eyes as he brushes his teeth. 

All the time, he listens for steps coming closer or for someone coming out of the shower, for laughing and shouting from far away. He listens over the sound of the running water, of spitting out toothpaste and, a moment later, over pissing and flushing the toilet. He hates that he does, and doesn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror when he gets back to the sinks to wash his hands. 

It’s not that he’s afraid. Not much, at least. It’s just that this place, which used to be _theirs_ — it’s lost its innocence tonight. Yes, he also saw that they have friends who stand up for them, and he nearly chokes with the memory. But he’s cautious now, nonetheless. And it feels depressingly right. 

The walk down the small street to their tents only takes them a couple of minutes. John is glad when they’re finally back, surprised by how much of a refuge the thin walls of their tent are for him tonight. 

Sherlock zips the tent closed behind them. John kneels in front of his backpack, putting away his toothbrush in the darkness, when Sherlock whispers, “John?” 

It sounds like a plea, as if he couldn’t say anything but this. So many emotions pressed into a single syllable. 

John turns around, about to ask _Yeah, Sherlock?_ when Sherlock just reaches out, asking him to come closer and touch him, with nothing but the gesture of his hand. 

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender body. He breathes in the scent of Sherlock’s t-shirt, of his skin and deodorant and the smoke of the campfire, of sun cream and cigarettes and a bit of the wine he must have spilled when drinking. John can almost see Sherlock wipe his mouth, firelight flickering across his face, green eyes glinting in the dark. 

He takes another deep breath, then presses his lips to the warm, salty skin unveiled by the collar, and up his neck, until he kisses his jaw, and finally finds his lips. 

They kiss and undress in the darkness. Their hands roam across backs, through hair and clothes shed, as if searching for something to hold on to; two shipwrecked men seeking for something solid to cling to. They find it when their fingers dig into skin and muscle, held in one other’s arms. 

_Yes, I’m here, Sherlock, I am, for you. I’ve got you,_ John thinks, _and I don’t care if some fuckers call us names._

John looks at Sherlock in the blue-grey twilight of the tent. He meets his eyes as he touches him, as he feels his cock harden in his hand, listening to his low, vocal sighs. He watches Sherlock pant with his mouth open. Then, long minutes later, Sherlock lifts his head in wonder; he lets it sink back on the tangle of clothes, sleeping bags and towels, with a groan on his lips as he comes. 

John never closes his eyes, never tears his gaze away, not even as Sherlock pulls him close to kiss him afterwards, belly still wet with come. 

John keeps looking at him as Sherlock turns and John comes to lie on the sleeping mats. Sherlock kneels down between his legs, taking him into his mouth. When his dark curls and the strong arm he’s leaning on are everything John can see of Sherlock, he watches those. 

His eyes almost flutter shut with stifled arousal as Sherlock stops sucking him and crawls up to John, smearing wet lips against his chin. Leaning in close, Sherlock meets John’s eyes, wraps his hand around his cock again and makes him come. 

_You you you, Sherlock. You._

John closes his eyes. 

_Whatever I end up doing, you have to be part of it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Summary of the homophobic incident:** A group of three drunk men comes to the campfire, talking in French. They're looking for trouble — and apparently find it when one of them spots John and Sherlock holding hands. The men shout a few homophobic insults at the two of them. John gets angry, rises to his feet, confronting the intruders. Sherlock follows him immediately, and as John notices a beat later, all of their friends, literally stand up for them. Before anything happens, Arnel makes it clear that this behaviour is not acceptable. He recognises the men, they're staying at the campsite as well. He threatens to inform the owner, to have them thrown out of the campsite and to call the police. Finally, the drunk men leave.
> 
> Special thanks to Cindy van Wilder a.k.a. links for her French translation! I'd planned this chapter for months, but I hadn't anticipated how difficult and plain wrong it would feel to write the slurs. My French is practically non-existant, and so I asked the amazing Cindy if she could help me with the translation -- sending these paragraphs to her felt even more disturbing and painful. So, thank you so much for you support, Cindy!
> 
> And here's the song they listen to at the beach -- Indochine, [Les plus mauvaises nuits](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLVmmdxQ6w0&list=PLUJVuvfTNIpFVCr3-8t8LF15OP0TVxgM1&index=31&t=0s).


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate day, with all its feelings. (Read: I don't know where the angst came from.)

John nestles his face into his sleeping bag, as if he could hide there from the day for another five minutes. This day deserves to wait, it has no right to creep in this early, and to steal them from the warmth of their makeshift bed. The sleeping bag is warm with the heat of not only his, but Sherlock’s body as well. Sherlock legs are touching his, thighs against knees. 

_Sherlock,_ John thinks, and turns, cracking his eyes open. 

The light is still dim. There are no sounds outside except for the sea and the wind, stroking across the beach and the land as if soothing them back to sleep in these early hours of day. 

“Hey,” John croaks. 

Sherlock is lying on his side, looking at him. John wonders how long he’s been awake, watching him like this. 

_He changed as well,_ John thinks, taking him in. _It’s not just me._

He trails his hand over Sherlock’s naked shoulder. Yesterday’s sunburn has cooled and Sherlock’s skin has taken on a slightly darker shade now, a bronze dusting blown across his whole body. Sherlock’s hair falls down on his forehead, hiding his eyes. John brushes it away, finding a hint of ginger in the dark curls, bleached by the sun. 

_It’s longer now,_ John notices, wondering if it’s possible for hair to grow so much in just three weeks. 

Three weeks. Almost three weeks. 

Sherlock never looks away, watching John as he goes over all the details of Sherlock’s body that he loves. His eyes and the fine skin around them, full lips, ears, the freckles on his forehead. His fingers. His neck. The way he smells. John creates a catalogue of impressions, knowing it will begin to dissolve, to fade from his mind as soon as he stops watching him, no matter how much he tries not to forget. 

Sherlock looks different now than John remembers him from that first day. Maybe it’s because he knows Sherlock now, because his mind doesn’t have to fill the gaps of knowledge with speculation and projection anymore. Maybe it’s because he knows what Sherlock is like when he allows himself to be seen, even when he’s vulnerable, when he’s lost. When he sleeps. 

_Oh come off it, Watson, his whole fucking dormitory at school knows what he looks like when he sleeps,_ John thinks, grimly. _And they’ll get to see him like that a fucking lot more than you will in the next few months._

He takes a deep breath. 

_Not like this,_ he finally thinks, calmer. _They don’t know him like this._

Just like John, Sherlock will take this vacation and everything that has happened back with him to his old life. They both have to find out how they’ll fit in there, now that they’re — this. In love. 

John swallows down the nagging question of whether Sherlock really is in love with him. He hasn’t said so, but he is, isn’t he? It looks like that. It looks a fucking lot like that. 

They’ll find a way to adapt, to go on living their lives. And they’ll find a way to change the circumstances of their lives so that they can accommodate them, these new versions of themselves. The men they’re growing to be. John briefly wonders how many people he’ll want to punch because they’re calling him and Sherlock _poofters, pédés,_ whatever. 

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock whispers, interrupting John’s thoughts, “and come here.” 

He lifts one arm, just a bit, inviting John to come closer, and John complies. John turns and shifts, until he lies with his back to Sherlock’s naked belly and lets him wrap his arms around him. When Sherlock’s body and the warmth that carries his scent envelop him, he lets go of his train of thought, even faster than it started a few moments ago. He listens to Sherlock’s calm breathing and closes his eyes. 

John can’t say for sure if he falls asleep again. It doesn’t feel like it, some part of him constantly registers how Sherlock holds him, stroking his belly in slow motion. But eventually the minutes blur into a dreamy haze and the low swoosh of the sea drifts into white noise. 

After a while, there is a point when John feels more awake again. Maybe he was stirred by the pottering of Harry and Gemma making breakfast outside. 

He turns, and presses a hazy kiss against Sherlock’s lips, soft with sleep. 

Sherlock kisses back, so lightly, and nearly missing John’s lips, that John wonders if Sherlock’s even awake, or if this is just his body reacting instinctively to John’s touch. 

“Breakfast?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s chin, his lips grazing across the soft stubble. 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and so John decides to make coffee for the two of them. He strokes a few curls from Sherlock’s face, then slips out of the sleeping bag, and gets dressed. 

He’s already outside the tent when he realises that he has just ended the last waking up with Sherlock. The last one that was like all the other days — tomorrow, they’ll have to get up in the grey light of dawn, pack the last things while talking in hushed voices and take down their tent without making any noise. Their bus leaves at half past five in the morning from the battered bus station in front of the campsite, and their train departs from Arcachon at five past six. Tomorrow won’t be like their mornings here. Tomorrow will be their departure. John’s heart feels leaden. 

“Hey, Johnny,” Harry yawns. She sits cross-legged in the sand next to her tent door, the coffee maker still on the stove. 

“Morning,” he murmurs back. 

Harry sips on her steaming coffee. She nods in the direction of the light forest. 

“Eddie and James are taking their tent down,” she points out. 

“Right,” John says. 

He watches Eddie and James pluck the metal hooks out of the sandy ground, loosen and unknot the ties and take off the outer tent, fold it up and stuff it into a bag of the same colour as the tent. The inner tent is made of fine, almost see-through cotton fabric; it looks vulnerable and raw like this. 

It’s unbelievable that John spent the thunderstorm in there, two weeks ago, after the day he realised that he was falling in love with Sherlock. It was the night when he wondered if Sherlock felt something for him, too. The night Sherlock took E and they all watched over him. The night before they became lovers in the morning. 

John swallows, then turns and looks down at his naked feet in the cool, damp sand. He clears his throat to himself, straightens and watches the sea for a moment. It looks like it did yesterday. The wind from the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean brushes waves with riotous white crests to the shore, carrying the clear, sharp air of autumn. But the clouds are different from those he saw last night — they’re lighter now, feathery and so far up in the sky that they almost look unreal. He stares at the endless blue and the clouds’ fine patches of white until the wind makes his eyes teary. 

“Coffee?” Harry asks from behind him. “Just do me a favour and have this last cup, I need the coffee maker to make some more.” 

“Yeah,” John says, turning to her. She’s already holding out his plastic mug, filled with milky coffee. “Thanks.” 

He sits down next to her. He quietly sips his coffee, when Eddie walks by, carrying his backpack and two folding chairs, his car keys dangling from his hand. 

“Morning, John, Harry,” Eddie says, stopping for a moment. 

“You need a hand?” John asks. 

“Or a coffee?” Harry adds, grinning. 

Eddie laughs. 

“Coffee would be perfect, we didn’t have time for breakfast. Maybe in 20 minutes, when we’ve put everything in the car?” he asks. “Where’s Sherlock? Still sleeping?” 

“Yeah,” John nods, suddenly missing Sherlock fiercely. 

“Lazy git,” Eddie says with a grin, turning to leave. 

Eddie walks up the street, and a couple of minutes later he drives his red Ford Fiesta as far down as possible, parking it just a few yards away from John’s tent. When he passes John and Harry, John gets up. 

“Let me help you,” he says and follows Eddie to the place where James is just putting the last bits of the tent into the bag. It looks weirdly empty now, the sand smoothed where the tent sat. Its surface is still creased by the tent floor, pressed flat by the weight of James’s and Eddie’s bodies wrapped in sleeping bags. 

Most things are piled up at the side, ready to be taken to the car. John looks at the tent bag, James’s backpack, a box with plastic plates and washing up liquid, and a few empty water bottles. 

“Good morning, John,” James says, looking up when he’s finished squeezing the metal hooks into the tent bag and zipping it closed. “What’s up?” 

“Thought I’d give you a hand.” 

“Oh, thanks, that’s great,” James replies and gets up, tent bag in one hand. 

John takes the plastic box and the empty bottles and walks to the car with James. 

After a short while everything is stowed in the car. When they finally leave the spot where James and Eddie’s tent was, John has a look around, automatically checking for things they forgot. He stops when he spots Sherlock’s tent. It looks lonely now. Sherlock hasn’t slept in there in days, never even been there again after he collected all the things he needed. The tent’s closed, and two of the strings have come loose. It stands there a little crookedly, utterly abandoned. 

_Sherlock should take it down,_ John thinks. Suddenly he finds it hard to swallow. 

After Eddie picks up another empty bottle and a metal hook from the tent, James sighs, and finally turns to leave. Eddie and John follow him. 

They’re still a few yards away from John’s tent when John spots Sherlock sitting next to Harry. Immediately, John starts to smile, he can’t even stop himself from doing so. It’s always so good to see Sherlock, just to _see_ him. He bites his lips. 

_Sherlock’s so fucking beautiful,_ John thinks, incapable of finding any words to capture the turmoil inside him. It’s a mix of the dread of departure, the sadness at saying good-bye to Eddie and James, and the bittersweet joy of seeing Sherlock, knowing that the countdown of their last shared hours here has started. 

Sherlock looks up. He’s wearing one of John’s t-shirts, and he can only have combed his hair quickly with his fingers, maybe not even that. Sherlock’s eyes are dark with what must be sadness, too, yet he lights up as he meet John’s gaze. 

Sherlock holds John’s mug, ridiculously small in his large hand. John has to laugh, and Sherlock smiles lopsidedly and takes a sip, until he turns to say something to Harry, making her grin and nudge his side in return. 

As John comes closer and they look at each other again, John almost holds his breath at the amount of emotion he finds in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s like a heavy veil dampening the brightness of his eyes, lurking in every muscle of his face, even as he smiles. 

John rubs a hand across his face. Briefly he wonders how he is supposed to make it through today, and tomorrow, and every day after that when Sherlock isn’t around. 

_Pull yourself together,_ he thinks. _Fucking pull yourself together. You’ll have all the time to be sad when you’re back home._

“Made coffee,” Harry says, smiling at James and Eddie. “Can’t have you going on a fuck-hour car ride without coffee.” 

She starts to pour coffee into Gemma’s mug and hers, and Gemma hands them to Eddie and James. 

“Thanks, Harry, you’re the best,” Eddie says, sitting down. “John, has anyone ever told you that you have the best sister?” 

“Yeah, I know. Harry _is_ the best,” John replies, slumping down into the sand next to Sherlock. 

John takes a sip, then meets Sherlock’s eyes again. After a beat of hesitation, John leans in to kiss him, just very briefly. 

For a short moment, there’s silence. 

“You two,” James says eventually, looking at Sherlock and John, “look after yourselves, will you?” James’s gaze is intent, warm. 

_It’s—_ John searches for the right word, and after a second of thinking, finds it, _—affectionate._ He bites his lips, lost for what to say. He glances at Sherlock and finds him squinting his eyes and looking at James. 

_Sherlock’s still surprised that we care._

Finally, Sherlock nods. John swallows, meets James’s eyes and comes up with, “Promise.” 

“Good,” James says. “Glad we settled that.” 

They don’t say another word about it. The end of this summer hangs in the air between them too heavily. Eddie and James will see Sherlock in a few days’ time, and John is sure they’ll be able to tie in with the change of their friendship. And after all, they’ll have loads of other things to worry about then — the last year of school, preparing for the A-levels, applying for uni and everything else. 

John sighs and watches Gemma slice a fresh baguette. She puts their four plastic plates, their four knives on the sand in the middle of the small group, and Harry gets butter and Nutella. 

They have breakfast chatting about small things that happened while they were here — that night they all had pizza at the restaurant, about how much weed Eddie and Arnel smoked. Or the horrible red wine Harry’d bought and brought to the campfire one night, Sherlock even cracked a joke about it. They all laugh, but John evades Harry’s gaze when he feels her looking at him, and searches for Sherlock’s instead, who’s still quiet. 

When they finish eating, James and Eddie reluctantly get up. 

“We’d really better get going,” Eddie says. 

John notices that he took off the plaster. The gash is a thick red line, healing well, the stitches meticulous black threads holding his skin. Eddie smiles at him, and John stands up as well. 

“Thanks for everything, John. Nice getting to know you,” Eddie says, hugging him briefly. 

“Same, Eddie. Take care of your head,” John smiles. 

Eddie says good-bye to Harry and Gemma, even pulling Sherlock into a quick embrace, when James looks John in the eye. James stands straight, strangely formal. But his voice is warm and fond when he says, “Make sure we get to see you again sometime, John.” 

“I fucking well will,” John replies, and means it. He’ll miss James, too, he realises. They stand in front of each other. Next to John, Harry is laughing about something Eddie said. John barely registers it. 

“You and Sherlock,” James adds after a beat of silence, “you’re very special.” 

John has the feeling that there’s more James wants to say. But James just takes a deep breath, steps closer and hugs John for a short moment. It feels stiff, he even pats John on the shoulder in the way men do who aren’t used to touching each other a lot, who aren’t quite comfortable with it. 

“Never saw Sherlock this happy, you know,” James says as he lets go of John. 

“Yeah, er,” John stammers, surprised and not knowing what to say. “I’ll make sure that he stays like that.” 

James doesn’t say anything else, he just smiles at John and then says good-bye to Sherlock. 

And then James and Eddie leave and walk to Eddie’s small red car. John, Sherlock, Harry and Gemma sit down, watching them climb inside and wave. They’re already hard to spot behind the windows reflecting the morning sun. 

John’s eyes never leave the car driving away. He has to think of the day James, Eddie and Sherlock arrived at the campsite: John was lying on his towel in this exact spot when Eddie and James walked past. Sherlock followed them, a few moments later. Thinking about his confusion at meeting this mysterious, beautiful boy who dropped his headphones right in front of him, John smiles. He was stunned to look into his bright, piercing eyes. He remembers exactly how his heart beat faster, and how he was too lost for words to reply to Sherlock’s _thank you_ when he handed him his headphones. John smiles even more. He’s almost sure Sherlock dropped them on purpose. 

It’s a repetition of that scene, yet reversed, changed — now, Eddie and James are leaving, not coming; but literally heading in the other direction. And Sherlock isn’t going with them. It’s as if John kept him, as if Sherlock never really left again after stopping in front of John that first day. 

He has no idea if right now, Sherlock knows what he’s thinking about. But Sherlock seems to understand how much the fact that he’s staying for this one last day instead of going home with his friends means to John. 

John stretches out his hand, and Sherlock takes it. 

“John, can you two take care of the dishes and breakfast?” Harry asks. “We’ll get a few things from the shop for the trip home tomorrow.” 

“Sure,” John replies, still stroking the pads of his fingers across the back of Sherlock’s hand. 

“Great. Need anything from the shop?” Harry asks as she turns to leave. 

“No, thanks,” John says, and the girls leave. 

All of a sudden, the place feels very calm. The wind slowly drives a cloud in front of the sun, the changing light turning the sea more grey than blue, and less tamed. John watches the waves as they gather strength far out on the ocean, wondering how they’ll crash against the shore once they get there. 

“Cigarette?” he asks, looking at Sherlock. 

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. 

“That’s my question, usually.” 

“Since you told me I wouldn’t smoke back in England, I’d better seize the opportunity while we’re here, right?” John says, without thinking. He immediately hates that he said it; he’d rather not have said anything about going home. 

Sherlock huffs, and gets up to fetch the cigarettes. John wonders if this gave Sherlock the same unexpected pinprick of pain as it gave to him. 

“Can you bring my hoodie?” John adds, freezing in the cool breeze from the ocean. 

A minute later, Sherlock returns with his cigarettes and John’s grey hoodie. He sits down next to John, looking out at the sea as he flips the blue pack open. 

John puts on the hoodie and watches Sherlock fish a cigarette out of the crumpled pack. He watches his long, elegant fingers, and suddenly wonders what it would be like to see him play the violin. 

With the next beat of his heart, he knows intuitively what Sherlock is about to do — he’ll turn to him and put the cigarette between John’s lips, glancing at him, his gaze warm with affection, clear and alert with curiosity. With his fucking intent way of _seeing_ things. 

John realises that he’s looking forward to this small gesture, to the intimacy they have negotiated here, finding a means to touch each other when it had been the only way they’d touched, and when they didn’t even know they yearned for more. 

Sherlock does put the the cigarette between John’s lips. He doesn’t rush, but moves slowly, thoughtfully, as if enjoying this in quiet. They have indeed negotiated this intimacy, and they stood up, ready to fight for it. They won’t have it taken away. 

John leans in as Sherlock lights the cigarette, feeling the momentary heat of the lighter’s flame on his forehead. He feels the proximity to Sherlock, the familiarity of his body and of every single one of his movements. 

John drags on the cigarette with a now practised ease, quietly exhaling the smoke and feeling the brush of air against his lips, the bitter, aromatic taste on his tongue. 

Sherlock takes the cigarette and pulls as well. John watches him as his lips close around the filter, just where his own lips were a heartbeat ago. Sherlock brushes his curls, still uncombed and wild, from his face, and meets John’s gaze. John’s heart beats the way it did when they first looked at each other. 

“You did that on purpose,” John says, breathing out a small, incredulous laugh. For a moment, everything feels light again. 

Sherlock tilts his head, no more than a fraction. 

“What?” 

“Your headphones, that first day. They didn’t slip out of your hand because you were carrying all that stuff. You dropped them, in front of me. On purpose.” 

Sherlock pulls again on the cigarette, and a moment later, he exhales the smoke, still looking at the sea. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock says with a shrug, and starts to smile. 

_I love you,_ John thinks, as he smiles back at Sherlock, and his stomach feels like falling. 

They smoke in silence. It’s still early, the campsite’s just waking up. They hand the cigarette back and forth, fingers touching, until John curls his hand around Sherlock’s larger one. 

The cloud that darkened the sun moves on, and John watches the ocean turn more blue again. It’s fascinating to look at, a subtle change that makes so much of a difference. 

_How many times will I look at the sea before we leave tomorrow?_ he wonders. 

_Ten times? A hundred? I want to look at it, really fucking_ see _it. Every single time. I never want to get used to it,_ John thinks. 

Sherlock hands him the cigarette. It’s almost down to the filter, and John knows it’ll taste like shit now. He drags nonetheless, determined not to let anything go to waste. 

Exhaling the last cigarette smoke, he grinds the butt in the sand. The wind is getting stronger, lightly rattling Sherlock’s tent in the distance. Although John would rather avoid talking about packing and getting ready for tomorrow’s departure, he says, “Your tent. You’d better take it down.” 

Sherlock looks in the direction of the light forest. He knits his brows and says, voice low, “You’re right.” 

Sherlock gets up and walks down the small path to his tent. John watches the empty spot where Eddie and James’s tent was, and then turns and looks at the street, where Eddie’s car was parked just ten minutes ago. After a moment, it all feels too odd, too lonely, and he drags himself to standing, pulling the hoodie closer around his body. He doesn’t want to see how Sherlock takes down his tent. His gaze drops to the mugs and plates still laying in the sand, covered in bread crumbs and smears of chocolate spread. 

He sighs, rubs a hand across his face, then kneels down and collects all of it to do the dishes. 

When John returns from the sinks at the shower house, Sherlock is back, sitting in front of their tent, facing the sea and smoking again. His shoulders are hunched against the chilly air, and there are goosebumps on his arms. His tent bag, still new and clean, sits on the ground next to him. John places the box with the dishes next to Gemma’s tent and takes off his hoodie. He drapes it around Sherlock’s shoulders and sits down next to him, knees touching. 

Sherlock turns and smiles gratefully, holding out his cigarette. John doesn’t really feel like another cigarette, but _Fuck it,_ he thinks, _this is our last fucking day._

This is the last day, indeed. Every hour, ever moment breathes, sighs, _screams_ it. There’s no fucking way to stifle this noise, to stop this truth from hurting him, and from hurting Sherlock just as much. 

John takes the cigarette and pulls, hard and long, waiting for the biting smoke to add a counterweight to his pain inside. It comes, numbing the ache, momentarily soothing the restlessness that is starting to creep in. He goes through the things they have to do today — check their food and use up as much as possible, already pack everything they don’t need anymore. They should try to get their towels and trunks dry before they put them into their backpacks. Looking at the sea, shimmering between grey and steely blue, he wonders if they’ll go swimming today at all. 

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock says calmly. “You’re thinking too much.” 

“As are you,” John replies, because Sherlock seems to have just as much on his mind as John. 

“Yes.” 

_I’m losing him,_ John thinks, and instinctively reaches out for Sherlock, taking his hand and holding it. _He’s slipping away from me and there’s nothing I can do to stop it._

John bites his lips, trying to think of something he could say to lighten the mood, to take this fucking weight off their shoulders. Maybe this is the time to talk about how to carry on when they’re back, just to — to give them some hope. Talk about how they’re going to do this, boyfriends and weekends together and all that. 

“When we’re back, Sherlock—” John tries, but Sherlock interrupts him. 

“No. Don’t. Not now.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are grey, sea-like, and heavy with the same turmoil. 

“I—,” he pauses, then takes a breath, evading John’s gaze, and adds, “I just can’t. Please. Okay?” 

John thinks he can hear a plea to settle this later, maybe tomorrow on the train, and not to spoil the precious time and freedom they have here. 

Maybe Sherlock’s right. Maybe John shouldn’t think so much of home and his life awaiting him there. He pulls on the cigarette again and goes back to watching the sea in silence. 

Later, Harry and Gemma return, and they talk about the exact things John had on his mind earlier — about what they need to do today, about using up another tin of ravioli, about checking the fucking train times and too many small things John doesn’t even want to hear about and still will take care of nonetheless. 

He and Sherlock start packing. They kneel inside their tent, slowly throwing worn clothes and unneeded clutter into their backpacks. They aimlessly sort through the items they didn’t even notice anymore, that blurred into the familiarity of the temporary home John’s tent had become for them. 

Under a dirty t-shirt, next to the trainers he hasn’t worn since he arrived on the campsite, John finds his watch. He almost forgot he even brought it here. It’s twenty to ten. Grimly, he puts it on again, now that he needs to keep an eye on the hours ticking by. 

He shoves his book into his backpack and takes his torch next, about to put it away, then wonders if he’ll need it again. With a low sigh, he puts it back down on the tent floor. He picks up his Swiss Army knife instead, weighing it in his hand, feeling the cold metal. He lets it slide from his hand and fall to the floor, incapable of making any decision or of going on packing. After a few moments of pointless thinking, the tent feels small and claustrophobic, and he crawls outside. He’ll have to do the rest later. 

Once outside the tent, he sinks into the sand, lost. 

It feels like shit, all of this — packing, saying good-bye to Eddie and James, and having to say good-bye to Arnel, later. This whole fucking day feels like shit, although John reminds himself that he should be grateful for the time they had here. He understands that their actual last day was yesterday, when things were still mostly normal, when their routine wasn’t broken by planning and packing and worrying. 

Everything that had felt like a fucking miracle a few days ago — the mere fact that he even met Sherlock here, that John fell in love with him, and that Sherlock wants John, too — all of this seems to be appallingly unfair now. 

Why can’t Sherlock live closer to him? Why can’t John figure out a way to stay with him? Why the fuck do they have to part? He _doesn’t want to_. From the deepest core of his soul through every part of his being up to the outermost layer of his skin, he does not want to part from Sherlock. He wants to scream with anger and frustration. 

There’s a rustle inside the tent, and then Sherlock comes out as well, and rises to his feet, standing next to him. 

“Let’s go swimming,” he says. 

“It’s fucking cold,” John snaps. He gets like that when he’s angry, but actually he’s fucking glad Sherlock suggested it. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. 

“Okay,” John murmurs after a minute. 

“The water is still warm from the sunny days we’ve had,” Sherlock states. 

John crooks a grateful smile. 

There aren’t many people down at the beach. Only a few towels draped across the sand, claiming small rectangles of space in the territory that actually belongs to the sea. 

When they wade into the water, John can feel the force of the waves, driven in by the wind, pushing against his legs. He craves to feel all of it, to find something to vent his frustration and sadness on, and so he heads into the ocean. 

Sherlock is right. John needs a minute to get used to it, but then, the water is almost mild. He dives through the waves, quickly losing sight of the ground beneath him, clouded by the sand stirred up by the tumbling sea. 

When he gets to the surface again, gasping for air and swallowing salty water, he turns and looks for Sherlock. 

He’s right next to John, of course he is. John’s heart skips a beat, and suddenly he hates himself for being so angry, so disheartened; it feels ridiculous and childish now. _Sherlock._ He has Sherlock now. What the fuck should he be angry about? 

John smiles at him, and turns to scan the shore. They’re still close, better swim out a bit. He wants to kiss him so badly. 

“C’mon,” John breathes over the waves between them. “Let’s see who’s faster.” 

Sherlock huffs a laugh. Before John can even blink, Sherlock is heading towards the horizon, his wet hair almost black, the skin of his shoulders a swirl of light bronze in the sage grey sea. 

John dives, following him. He swallows more water than he ever has. He lets it flow through his open lips, tasting the salt, feeling it cool against his palate. He wants the sea to replace every drop of water in his body; to make his blood, his sweat, his tears and his come as saline as the ocean. It gushes into his nose and down his throat when diving up, he breathes in too quickly, hungry for air. It stings and makes his eyes tear up. 

John coughs and wipes his eyes with wet fingers. Sherlock is swimming next to him, his eyes glinting, and raw with emotion. They’re far out now, the grey waves carrying them up and down, above them grey clouds torn across the sky. 

John looks at him, still gasping and catching his breath, when something blazing and beautiful flickers across Sherlock’s face like a ray of sunshine stealing its way through thick clouds. With a stroke of his arms in the sea, Sherlock comes closer. He kisses him, hard, tangling one hand into John’s wet hair. They both taste of the sea. 

John wraps his arms around him, moving his legs in the ocean, feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his own. Sherlock’s hand clasps John’s arm, and with unknown force, they hold each other, still swimming. They’re both so fucking strong, John can feel it; it nearly takes his breath away. It’s as if they could do anything, as if they could make it through fucking anything. Sherlock clenches his fist in John’s hair, pulling it. John gasps, but he doesn’t mind, he only kisses him harder. He wants to feel it all, Sherlock’s strength, his fucking presence, and all the things Sherlock can do to him. 

When they break their kiss, a wave lifts them up and carries them down again, a long fluid motion, the heartbeat of the sea. For the duration of one wave running past their bodies, Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s, noses touching. John closes his eyes and just feels him. 

When they swim on, neither of them says a word; they swim too fast to have any spare breath left for talking. They try to dive again, but give up after going down twice without even reaching the bottom of the sea. The current’s too strong, it takes too much energy, and they can’t see much in the troubled sea. 

So they swim for as long as they can, battling the waves until they’re getting cold and hungry. They savour the sea until the last minute, until they’re shivering and numb with exhaustion, and the need for warmth and rest forces them back to the beach. 

They stumble to their towels. John sinks down on the sand, chest heaving, water running down his body. Sherlock sits next to him, taking his large towel, and wraps it around both their shoulders. Warmth slowly begins to seep into John’s body from where it touches Sherlock’s. 

John feels his breath even, and for a moment, he’s perfectly calm. As if the sea had kept his fear and sadness, washed it off his soul, then watered it down until it lost its power, and gave him back to the land to live his life; calm, and clean, and more confident. He exhales as reality tightens its grip around his chest again, he watches the shore as if this could help him not to let go of that image. 

The sea is loud like this, almost at eye-level, waves roaring in just a few yards away from them. It makes Sherlock’s silence sound even louder on the lonely beach, but John just lets him be. 

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end,” Sherlock says after a long time, when John’s shins are already tautening with drying salt and the shiver in his muscles has long subsided. John looks at him. 

“Usually drives my mum mad,” Sherlock laughs, brushing a drying curl from his face. But his laughter is tinged with sadness, dying before it even reaches his eyes. 

John still doesn’t say anything, he just rest his cheek against Sherlock’s shoulder for a beat. 

Finally, they leave, slowly climbing the slope up to the campsite. They stop a few times under the pretense of weariness and aching limbs, and turn back to look at the sea. Neither of them seems to be ready to leave. 

Up on the hill, their tents are deserted, but John finds a second tin of ravioli next to the camping stove. Harry and Gemma must have bought it for lunch. Quickly, John gets out of his damp, cold trunks and puts on his shorts and his hoodie, then he opens both tins and starts to prepare lunch. 

They eat fast and without talking. John is surprised how good it feels to eat something warm, it hasn’t felt this good in a long time. It takes him a moment to understand that it hasn’t felt like that because it was summer. He stares at the ravioli cooling on his plate, and at his naked feet, toes curled up against the chill. They’re nearly finished when Harry and Gemma arrive and have lunch just as unceremoniously. 

John forces himself to go on packing afterwards. Tomorrow morning will be a fucking rush. He manages to squeeze almost everything into his backpack, except for tomorrow’s clothes and his sleeping bag. He takes a look around as he’s done, even lifts the sleeping mat to check if there’s something underneath he missed. 

It feels like shit, this empty tent, and he leaves quickly. He should buy food for the train ride, he realises, and something to drink. 

“I’m going to the shop, Sherlock, getting something to eat for the — for tomorrow. Join me?” he asks. Sherlock sits next to his empty plate, skimming through an old newspaper. 

“No,” Sherlock says, looking up at John briefly, sadness clouding his eyes like a shadow. “Can you bring cigarettes?” 

Before John can say anything in reply, Sherlock goes back to reading the newspaper he can’t really be interested in, telegraphing that he doesn’t want to talk. 

John nods and leaves, wondering how the fuck he is going to deal with Sherlock’s sadness and the way he’s withdrawing. 

He hasn’t found an answer when he enters the small shop, hearing Arnel talking from behind the counter in rapid French with two other customers. 

John’s not hungry, and he doesn’t want any of the food he finds on the shelves. For a long moment he stares at a pack of small, sweet French rolls, remembering how soft and plush they were in his mouth. Defeated, he takes two packs, one for him, one for Sherlock, and grabs two bottles of coke and another one with water. 

“ _Salut, Jean, ça va?”_ Arnel says as John puts his things on the counter. _“Où est Sherlock?”_

“Hello, Arnel. He’s at the tent,” John replies, nodding in the vague direction of their tent, and adds, “packing. I need some of Sherlock’s cigarettes, please.” 

“You’re leaving today?” Arnel says, putting a pack of blue Gauloises next to the brioches. 

“Tomorrow morning, train leaves at six.” 

“ _Ah, merde, c’est trop tôt,_ ” Arnel groans. “It’s a long ride then? Where are you from in England?” 

“Yeah, it’s almost 14 hours. Sherlock goes to school in London. I’m from Winchester.” John bites his lips. 

Arnel glances at him as he types the prices into the till. 

“You’ll be far from him then? When you’re at home?” 

John shrugs. 

“Two hours by train, or one and a half. Depends,” he murmurs. 

“ _Pas facile, ça,”_ Arnel states calmly. _“Je le sais.”_

John briefly meets his eyes, and the compassion he sees there nearly makes him choke. He clears his throat before he speaks. 

“Yeah. It’s…pretty fucking difficult,” he admits, but quickly carries on, “How about — how about dinner at the restaurant? With the girls and Sherlock? Later?” 

“Good idea. My shift ends at 7:30.” 

John smiles, hiding behind his smile as if he was simply being polite, his sadness a lump in his throat. He pays, stuffs his things into the white plastic bag and trudges down the street to their tent. 

Without understanding how, the hours slip away from them. They pack some more, eat the baguette left over from breakfast so they don’t have to throw it away. Sherlock packs his own backpack and sorts through the small pile of newspapers, finally putting them all into the bin, together with a couple of old batteries and two empty packs of cigarettes. 

They have a shower, later. John asks Sherlock to come with him; suddenly he can’t stand to be on his own or away from him. From the corner of his eyes he watches Sherlock undress next to him. For once, he doesn’t feel like pushing him against the nearest wall, like running his hands across Sherlock’s skin until they both gasp with how much they want each other. 

_I’d be happy to just look at him for the rest of my fucking life,_ John thinks, but he knows it’s a lie, he wouldn’t make it through a single day without touching Sherlock. Nonetheless he tries to negotiate with fate, to bargain until he’d at least be able to just fucking see Sherlock, and know he’s okay. 

John takes him in in a series of short sideways glances, stolen looks in this semi-public space. There’s no one around, but — but still, he’s more careful now. Their eyes meet a few times, warm flashes of contact in the silence of the cool shower room. Suddenly John misses Sherlock’s lightness, his banter, and its absence adds a heavy weight to his own trouble. 

_Sherlock’s beautiful, even when he’s sad,_ John thinks. _He’s so beautiful it hurts._

They shower without saying a word. John tries to memorise Sherlock’s brand of shower gel, making a mental note to buy it at home. He looks forward to doing this, because it’s something he can fucking _do_ — it’s not waiting and hoping and fucking praying that things will somehow sort themselves for Sherlock and him. 

_I fucking have to ask him when we’ll see each other again. I’ll ask him on the train, tomorrow,_ John thinks as he rinses his hair, and by the time he gets dressed, he vows it to himself. Sherlock will have to hear him out tomorrow. He must want to talk about this, too. 

When they come back to the tent, the sun is already hanging low above the horizon, sending dark golden rays through the clouds. 

At the restaurant, a little later, they have pizza and some wine. John wonders where Eddie and James are by now, if they’re at the ferry, watching the sunset over the channel, leaning against the railing, or already at home. 

With the darkness of departure looming inside him, John feels like an outsider, here — his mood is out of place in the small, cozy restaurant, smelling of the baked cheese and tomato sauce on the pizza, of fries and thousands of nights with cigarettes and wine. Sherlock is just as silent as he is, they’re both outsiders. But the group they don’t feel like they belong to has grown small, like sand washed away from the shore and eroding the beach, the sea stealing back what’s hers. It’s only Harry, Gemma and Arnel now. 

When the bottle of wine is empty, the others decide to spend the rest of the evening at the campfire at the dune, not giving a damn about the cool night. John doesn’t have to see Sherlock’s reaction to know he doesn’t want to go, just like John. 

Harry already pushes her chair back, white plastic scratching across the battered tiles on the floor. She’s about to get up and leave, when the seconds suddenly start to tick by slower than before, time stretched thin until it’s tense and heavy with yet another good-bye. Every beat of the large clock’s second hand seems to cut through the low murmur of the guests at the other tables. 

It’s half past eight. They’ll be on their way tomorrow at six in the morning, and with some luck, they’ll be in London thirteen and a half hours later. And that’s where he’ll have to say good-bye to Sherlock, John guesses. At half past seven in the evening, at St Pancras International Station. 

They don’t even have twenty-four hours left. 

A feeling of sickness and dread washes over him like foul, brackish water, carrying a smell of decay you can never quite scrub off, no matter how much soap you use. 

They all get up, pay, and walk out on the small street down the campsite to the sea, ending next to John’s tent, at the brink of the path down the hill to the beach. They walk in silence, all five of them, finally stopping in front of their tents. 

Arnel looks at John, raising his eyebrows with a low sigh, smiling. He must be so fucking used to meeting people who could become friends and losing them again three weeks later. 

“ _Jean_ , Sherlock,” Arnel says, “I guess we won’t see each other tomorrow morning, right?” 

John shakes his head with an apologetic smile. 

“All the best to you. Have a safe trip home,” Arnel says, stepping forward and hugging John. When he lets go of him, he glances at both John and Sherlock and adds, the _r_ rumbling, “You’re — you two are very special. Take care of each other, okay?” 

John huffs a brief laugh in surprise, James said almost the same thing to him. He watches Arnel hug Sherlock. 

“Yeah, ‘course we will,” John says. He wants to say it firmly, as if this didn’t hurt as much as it does, but he can’t suppress a tremor in his voice that the others must hear as well. He feels Harry’s gaze and doesn’t look at her. He glances at Sherlock, and finds him looking at Arnel and nodding. Sherlock reaches for his pack of cigarettes and takes one out. He turns to John, shooting him a look that asks, _cigarette?_ John comes closer, accepting the offer, and pulls on the cigarette as Sherlock lights it, his large hand resting against John’s cheek. 

John manages a smile as Arnel, Gemma and Harry say good-bye and turn to leave, getting on their way down the hill, to the beach, and then up the dune. 

Sherlock and John sit in the sand, watch the sea and smoke, passing the cigarette back and forth between them. Sherlock’s silence is deafening right now, heavy and oppressive. John is glad he can focus on the touch of Sherlock’s fingers as he takes the cigarette from him. John watches the waves, dark and holding the promise of more darkness, the white foam oddly bright in contrast. Sherlock rises to his feet next to him, already taking a step towards their tent, but stops again. John looks at him, and Sherlock takes his hand, pulls him up and takes him with him. 

They get into the tent, slumping down on their sleeping bags. John can hear Sherlock breathe in the quiet light of dusk. It’s dim, and it will be fully dark in a few minutes’ time. Suddenly John can’t bring himself to even think about where he put his torch. From one moment to the next, his arms and legs feel leaden and useless, and exhaustion paralyses him. 

Just that this exhaustion is different, it’s made of worries and misery rather than of strained muscles and exertion. It drains all his energy; it’s fed on every bit of happiness and hope, and now there’s none left. 

At the same time, expectation seems to hang heavily in the air between them, echoing with the unspoken call to fucking seize this last night. The fact that John doesn’t see how he could do this, how he could find the lightness to enjoy anything about these last hours, fills him with despair and the fear of failing Sherlock, of destroying whatever they could still have now. The minutes tick by, and neither of them moves, or says a word. 

“I don’t feel like sex, Sherlock,” John finally blurts out. He swallows. He’s embarrassed, he should want to sleep with Sherlock, he really should seize every fucking remaining second of their time here. But all he wants is to be held, to press his face against Sherlock’s chest, breathe him in and forget everything. 

Sherlock pulls him closer and brushes a kiss to his temple. 

“We don’t need to have sex now,” Sherlock says in a whispery rumble. John exhales, closes his eyes and lets himself sink against Sherlock with relief. 

Another minute passes like this, while darkness seeps in from the outside, conquering their tent and making it part of the night. 

“I want to feel you, though,” John says, his voice falling deeper. 

They undress in the cool air of the tent, dropping their clothes in the now empty space next to their sleeping mats, void of all the clutter, like a house before moving. 

John lies down and pulls his sleeping bag over his legs, up his torso, finally wrapping it around his shoulders. The polyester fabric is cool and smooth on his skin, rustling and hissing as he shifts on the sleeping mat. He smells the old plastic of the mat, the slightly mildewed odour of the tent floor, damp meadows and grass imprinted in its plastic fibres. He buries his nose in his sleeping bag. It smells of Sherlock and him. 

A moment later, Sherlock slips under the makeshift blanket, his body warm against John’s. John sighs at the feeling of Sherlock’s naked skin on his. It’s the first thing that feels right today, that makes him remember what hope and home and the feeling of belonging somewhere must be like. 

He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders under the sleeping bag, presses his lips and his nose into the warmth of Sherlock’s skin, and holds him. 

_This is our last night,_ John thinks and closes his eyes again, trying to escape the world. He wants to shut out the tent, the campsite, the beach, their lives that force them to leave tomorrow at the break of dawn. He just wants to exist in a place that consists of Sherlock and him pressed together, that is entirely made out of touches and breaths and sighs. 

Sherlock holds him just as tight, as if he needed this as much as John does. They feel each other’s exhales on their skin, warm, humid air in the chill of the evening. They listen to the sounds they make, how they swallow and breathe so close to each other, and the soft plosive kisses on tender skin. John feels their hearts beat, his own, and Sherlock’s as well. 

They hold each other, eventually starting to caress each other. Hesitantly they run fingertips down their bodies, across bellies and hip bones, through their pubic hair, resting in the small of their backs. They trail their hands across the delicate skin on the underside of their arms, through the fine hair in their armpits that carries their scent; up their necks, tousling curls. Feeling this is so much, more than John could put into words or force his brain to memorise, yet it’s not enough. It’s never enough. 

John wants to lose himself in Sherlock, he wants to dissolve and let himself be soaked into Sherlock’s body. He wants to remain in this moment forever, but he can’t. He knows that he can’t as restlessness and frustration begin to prickle in his fingertips. It’s as if he tries to carry water with his bare hands, inevitably escaping his palms and spilling through his fingers. 

Sherlock’s hands still on John’s body and rest there for a moment. He must feel the shift in emotions, probably already making a plan how to handle this. Sherlock lifts one hand, opens the zip a few inches, turning his head to peek outside. He looks back at John for a moment, squinting his eyes, then sits up and slips his legs from under of John’s sleeping bag and into his own. 

“Close your sleeping bag and come out, John,” he whispers. 

John rubs a hand across his face, not understanding. 

“What? Why?” he asks, whispering like Sherlock. Maybe they can keep this moment forever if they’re quiet enough and never disturb it. 

“C’mon. Want to show you something,” Sherlock replies, opening the tent and letting in the fresh night air, the smell of fresh seaweed and salt, of pines and dry sand. 

John props himself up on his elbows, rearranges his sleeping bag and pulls up its zip. 

Wrapped in his sleeping bag up to his chest, Sherlock crawls out and lies down, his back on the sand in front of their tent, just like he did the morning when John took the picture of him with Gemma’s camera. 

“Come on,” Sherlock insists, watching John in the darkness. After a beat, John follows him. Except for a few monosyllabic questions and answers over packing, he and Sherlock have barely exchanged ten words today. John knows that it’s both of them retreating into silence, but still it feels bleak. He misses their talking and the sound of Sherlock’s voice when he’s happy, or intrigued. Whatever it is that Sherlock wants to show him, it sparks Sherlock’s curiosity and it makes him talk to John again. John crawls outside and lies down so close to Sherlock that he still feels his warmth. 

The sand is cool and dry under his naked shoulders, and it’s completely dark by now. John looks up into the sky, and to his surprise, almost all the clouds are gone, and the night sky above their tent is lit with countless stars. 

“The fucking milky way,” John whispers incredulously. He didn’t expect to see it again this clearly while they’re still here. He huffs a laugh. “Wanted to show you for days, Sherlock, you know that?” 

Sherlock reaches out and puts his hand under John’s neck, then his whole arm, holding him. John shifts closer, resting his head against his shoulder. He turns and presses a kiss against Sherlock’s cheekbone, and then they just lie there together, looking at the stars. John feels his chest widen, allowing him to breathe, the leaden heaviness lifted off his body as if it had lost its right to exist in the face of this night’s beauty and miracle. 

“There’s _Cassiopeia_ ,” John whispers after a perfect, wondrous minute under the milky way, and points at a few stars forming a _w_ in the sky. Just to see if he remembers the few stellar constellations his dad had shown him when he was little, he scans the indigo sky. 

“And there’s the Big Dipper,” he murmurs as he spots it, voice low and light with quiet joy that they get to see this together. 

“And over there, the bright one at the horizon, that’s Venus. Evening star,” John adds, smiling to himself as if he found a small treasure. “Sometimes you can spot Mars, and you can even see it’s slightly red.” 

“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock whispers. 

“Yes.” 

They don’t say anything for a long time. John feels Sherlock beside him, his presence comforting. He hears the ocean and wonders if the stars are being reflected in the sea, torn and moving with the waves, as if they were alive. Like living, breathing creatures, spinning their own lives and tragedies. 

“Some of the stars we see don’t even exist anymore. We only see their light, still travelling through space, although the stars themselves have vanished thousands of years ago,” John says, more to himself than to Sherlock. He has to think of this whenever he watches the stars, and it always takes his breath away. Now he also has to think of the sea sparkle that Sherlock showed him, yet another universe of light in the night, a world entirely unknown to John. When he squeezes his eyes, just enough to let the last of the light slip between his nearly closed eyelids, the stars glitter and dance, like _noctiluca scintillans_ in the ocean two weeks ago. 

“Had no idea,” Sherlock replies. He sounds surprised, but keeps his voice hushed, as if he, too, tried to preserve the frailty of the moment. 

“What?” John asks. 

“Had no idea about this, that this is the light of dead stars,” Sherlock says, and then adds in a whisper, speaking faster, “but it sounds logical, given the speed of light and the distances in space… we’re actually looking back in time.” 

“How did you not have an idea about this? It’s the most fascinating fucking thing about the universe.” 

John laughs. _God, how I —_ he sighs internally, laughing again, but now at the inevitability of this thought. _How I love you, Sherlock._

“Never cared much about stars, John, or the sun, or the moon, or what goes around what,” Sherlock admits, voice still low, but John can hear that he smiles. 

“You don’t know what goes around what?” John whispers, and turns his head. “Like the earth going around the sun?” 

“No, I don’t,” Sherlock says, now with a low, rumbling laugh; the kind of laugh John doubts he ever lets anyone hear but him. 

“But it’s the solar system!” John chuckles incredulously. _I fucking love you, you madman._

Sherlock laughs again, a small intimate noise, then turns to John. “I know.” 

John can see his eyes in the darkness, glittering silver. Quietly the laughter vanishes until only the feeling of being a very small part of a giant, universal miracle remains. Until Sherlock slowly leans in and kisses John. 

John sighs as Sherlock’s lips touch his. John opens his mouth, and lets Sherlock lick inside. 

It feels as precious as a first kiss. John’s heart pounds a quick, steady rhythm against his chest, and he registers every detail about Sherlock — how Sherlock’s warm breath brushes across his face, the touch of his fingertips against John’s cheek, his curls tickling his forehead. The way he tastes. 

Silence is painted over the low background noise of the sea. Their breaths sound loud in the night, and yet they’re immediately swallowed by the light wind. 

John feels lighter now, in spite of everything that is weighing him down. Kissing him, Sherlock crawls on top of John in his sleeping bag, and John’s grateful to feel the very real weight of Sherlock’s body, of his boyfriend, on him. 

Although it presses the air from his lungs, John welcomes every one of Sherlock’s movements ontop of him, every shift of weight that makes John feel him, and that makes him stop feeling everything else. 

Slowly, John becomes aware of the hardness pressing against his thigh through sleeping bags and shorts. He lifts his leg a fraction, immediately feeling Sherlock press against it in silent reply, and this is enough to awaken his desire. Joy and relief break free from his body in a low exhale. He’s so glad to feel that he wants Sherlock, that they get the chance to love each other one more time. 

With a raspy sigh against Sherlock’s open mouth, he rolls his hips against Sherlock’s. When he’s about to slide his hand into Sherlock’s sleeping bag and between his legs, Sherlock breaks their kiss. Breathing fast, their eyes meet for a beat, and without saying a word, they both sit up and crawl back inside the tent. 

The intimacy of their tent envelops them, capturing them in a dream-like state between _here_ and _there,_ between the past three weeks they spent on this campsite and the real life that awaits them, not even a day away, drawing closer by the minute. 

Growing impatient, they zip their sleeping bags open, tearing away the barrier of fabric between them. They kiss deeply, and run their hands all over one other’s bodies, holding on to each other, digging into shoulders and buttockswith obvious need. 

“We have all night,” Sherlock whispers, lifting John’s chin with two fingers and looking him in the eyes for the duration of a heartbeat. Then he lets go, and starts to pour kisses over John’s neck, then gently bites at his jaw. 

_We have all night._ John can’t tell if Sherlock says it to himself or to John. He lets his head fall back as Sherlock sucks another love bite against his collarbone. 

_This is our last time. This is the last time we have sex before we leave,_ John thinks, over and over again, gasping at the light sting of pain as his skin’s delicate blood vessels break, as microscopic droplets of blood are drawn to the surface and into Sherlock’s mouth. It’s only when Sherlock presses a kiss to this spot and then dives down between his legs to take John’s cock into his mouth a few moments later, that John tells himself to stop thinking altogether. 

Sherlock’s mouth is perfect, hot suction; by now, he knows exactly how John wants this. Sherlock knows John’s pace and how he needs to be touched. John groans and can’t help but thread his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. And still, sometimes, in between, John has the impression he can’t feel Sherlock. He can’t even say what it is — the way Sherlock glances into the distance instead of meeting John’s gaze, the way his lips don’t smile and every sigh is tinted with wistfulness. 

_He’s here,_ John tells himself, _touching me._ And yet it’s as if their distance is growing wider, as if they’re lose touch already. It scares John. It makes his heart add a quick beat to its already fast rhythm and it sharpens his senses, it doesn’t allow him to let go. 

It feels as if one part of Sherlock is already gone. As if a piece of his soul broke off and got lost, and now Sherlock mourns it, achingly silent. Sherlock holds on to John like a drowning man, his hands all over John’s body. 

And yet — and yet Sherlock is leaving. Maybe he doesn’t know how to stop the distance sneaking in between them either, maybe their growing apart is inevitable. He’s slipping through John’s fingers, every hour a bit more. John can’t quite say when it started. It seeped in like Sherlock’s silence, starting with a few missing words, growing heavier and heavier, until it thunders in John’s ears. A few moments ago, watching the milky way covering the whole night sky above them, Sherlock was here with John again. It now seems to John as if Sherlock was looking at him properly one last time. Now that they’re back inside the tent, kissing, touching, John only feels how much of him he has already lost. 

So John whispers Sherlock’s name, and pulls him back up, kisses him and guides him to lie down on his back. He runs a line from his mouth down his carotid artery, across his chest and his strong, beating heart, watching the pulse flutter on the skin of his belly where, underneath, the abdominal aorta pulses blood like life through his body. He goes deeper, past his belly button and down to his pubic hair, then kisses the head of his cock and starts to suck him. 

John holds Sherlock even more than usual, running his hands over every inch of Sherlock’s body he can reach. He kisses him as much as he can and breathes his name against his shivering skin. He tries his best to read him carefully, to do whatever makes Sherlock sigh and gasp, whatever it takes to keep him here, with him. 

John can’t speak, though. There are no words that would convey what he feels, that he fears that tomorrow he, too, will irretrievably lose a part of his soul. He can’t say how much he dreads whatever is coming, and how much he forces himself to believe that they will make it, that this will do them no harm. 

It seems to take hours, their lovemaking. John can tell that Sherlock is getting close inside his mouth, but instead of giving in to the promise of bliss hovering above him, Sherlock whispers John’s name now, pulling him up until their lips meet. They roll their hips against each other slowly, cocks touching, until John takes them into his hand. He feels orgasm drawing him in. It won’t take much, now. 

“Not now, not yet,” Sherlock breathes. He gets down between John’s legs once more, his long fingers caressing the crease between his thigh and his groin, his balls, and, lightly, _so fucking lightly,_ his cock. John hears himself breathe, not fast, but ragged, and he tries not to come under the touch of Sherlock’s hand. As if he had made a deal with fate, that as long as they don’t come, this night won’t end. He sighs at this thought, incapable of evading it, it has already sneaked in behind his closed eyelids and cannot be forced away. 

When John gets too close, they turn again, Sherlock lies down and John crawls between his legs. He laps softly against the head of his cock, trying to take his time. When he hears Sherlock breathe hard with need, he goes deeper, licking his balls and perineum instead, making Sherlock groan and curse, face pressed sideways into a tangle of sleeping bags. 

Eventually Sherlock lifts his head to look at down John. He’s biting his lip, hard enough to make it go white, then lets his wet bottom lip slip from between his teeth, reddening rapidly. 

“Fuck me.” 

John draws a deep breath. He almost explodes hearing this. 

“Yeah,” John says, sounding rough. He takes a look around, searching for the lube, when Sherlock wipes two fingers across his cock until they’re wet with precome. 

Still lying between his legs, John watches Sherlock slide his wet finger into his entrance. It makes him gasp to see this from so close, leaving no doubt about what Sherlock is doing there, watching every detail of it. After only a few moments, Sherlock slips his finger out and slowly pushes in two instead. 

It’s beautiful in a primal, savage way, how Sherlock fingers himself, how he goes just a bit faster, just a bit harder. John can see that Sherlock’s holding back, that he actually needs more and doesn’t give it to himself. 

John tears his gaze away, and crawls up to Sherlock, hoping that not seeing his fingers inside his arse will be less arousing, less threatening to make John come from watching alone. 

At first, John thinks that Sherlock’s eyes are closed, but they aren’t; he’s looking at John, heavy-lidded. John meets Sherlock’s gaze, and he realises how much of an idiot he was to think this would be less arousing. 

Sherlock’s body glistens lightly with sweat, and he rolls his hips against his own fingers in a beautiful, infatuating rhythm. John swallows hard. 

“I’m so close, John,” Sherlock breathes, desperately, “I’m so close.” He sucks in a breath, and holds it, and when he speaks again, it’s almost a sob. “Fuck, John, I’m so, so close.” 

“You want me to—? Now?” 

“I need you, John. I fucking need you.” 

Sobering up for just one moment, John hurries to find his bag of toiletries on top of his backpack, opens it with one hand and grabs the lube and condoms. He sits up, tears open the condom, rolls it down and spreads a big dollop of lube on his cock. 

Getting back between Sherlock’s legs and pressing the head of his cock against Sherlock’s entrance, he doesn’t even think of the difficulties they had when they tried this for the first time. Tonight, it’s effortless. He glides inside Sherlock’s body as if on a wave. 

They’re both close from the beginning, this isn’t going to last long. They breathe the very same, heated air between their mouths, touching each other’s skin, incapable of telling whose it is that they feel under the pads of their fingers. They look at each other, all the time. 

John thrusts into him at a slow pace, still trying to draw this out as much as possible. Sherlock lifts his hips to meet his thrusts, and John feels his strength and the impact John’s movements have on him. 

Sherlock’s eyes only threaten to fall shut when he starts to come, taking John with him. With a low groan, breathing John’s name against his lips, Sherlock bucks his hips, and they’re both losing themselves in bliss. John doesn’t think of anything anymore; for a few comforting moments, his mind is wiped blank, and he feels nothing but the heat of Sherlock’s body, his ragged exhales in his ear. 

As the sweet, deceptive haze of orgasm fades, it leaves sadness and exhaustion in its wake. 

_It’s over,_ John thinks, his throat raspy from panting, _this whole day is already over, gone, and we won’t sleep with each other until we meet again._

As gently as possible, he slips out of Sherlock’s body, Sherlock’s hand still clasping his short hair. John turns and comes to lie down next to Sherlock, still breathing fast and uneven with their climax and the black hole of emotions that threatens to swallow him. 

He wants to say something,to make things feel right for tonight and every night after this. 

_I love you, Sherlock, and I want to see you again as soon as possible. I want to make this work with you._

He chokes, a lump forming so quickly in his throat it almost makes him sick. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes, until the feeling of constriction eases a little. 

He holds Sherlock instead, pressing kisses of silent affirmation into his damp curls and running his fingers through them. Sherlock beds his head on John’s chest, a heavy, hard weight right above John’s heart, and falls asleep there. 

John closes his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him as well. 

_Tomorrow at this hour, we’ll be apart._

He pushes the thought away immediately, he’s scared of it. Then he bites his lips, hard. He only stops when he fears he might taste blood, and looks at the thought again. 

_Tomorrow at this hour, we’ll be apart. I’ll lie in my bed and you’ll lie in yours, at your brother’s place in London. I’ll be crying, Sherlock. I know I will._

He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears welling up. 

_Oh fuck it, Watson, he isn’t even gone yet._

He holds Sherlock tighter, as much as he can without waking him. His breath is coming in shaky, pressed exhales, followed by slow, long inhales, mere attempts to calm down. 

_He isn’t fucking gone yet._

One hand in Sherlock’s hair, the other one wrapped around his broad shoulders, holding him, he presses his nose into Sherlock’s hair, smells it, lets it tickle his nose. He feels Sherlock breathe, taking strange comfort in the mere fact that he’s alive, that he exists in the same space and time as John. 

He tries to think of something that might hold the power to keep him from falling apart. And so he pictures seeing Sherlock again, maybe on a September weekend in three weeks — he imagines himself searching the platform at Winchester station, scanning every single person getting out of the train. He’d spot Sherlock at the far end of the train, just stepping off it, wearing a warm jumper and a jacket John hasn’t seen on him. Sherlock would smile when he saw him. John would walker faster in his direction, and then he’d run, and finally he’d drag him into a tight embrace— 

But all of a sudden a different image comes up in John’s mind. 

With hot tears running down his face, John now sees Sherlock and him, their backpacks heavy on their shoulders, sweaty from fourteen hours of train ride. 

Tomorrow evening. 

He pictures a platform at St Pancras station in London, commuters and travellers rushing past them. It would be all grey concrete, red bricks and artificial light. Bringing back the metropolis in an avalanche of sensory input after three weeks under the endless blue sky with only the sea, the sand and the wind around them. A creaky voice announcing the next train over the loudspeaker, barely understandable in the giant hall of the station. The air would be heavy with iron and machine oil, with exhaust fumes and the metallic squeaking of an incoming train, its brakes grinding tons of steel to a stuttering halt. 

He pictures him and Sherlock, holding each other. They’d cry without making a sound. Maybe nobody else would even notice, nobody who wasn’t looking at their faces, seeing their cheeks glisten with wetness. Sherlock’s beautiful eyes would be red-rimmed. 

They’d kiss. This would be their good-bye, this last, long kiss, tasting of tears and the sea. They’d break the kiss, resting their foreheads against each other. And that’s — that’s when John would tell him. 

_See you in three weeks, Sherlock._

_Okay. Three weeks, John._

Sherlock would try to be strong, he’d try not to let John catch a glimpse of his sadness. 

John laughs into the silence of the tent without making a sound — it would be futile as fuck, Sherlock’s face shows every fucking emotion so beautifully. His last laugh turns into a voiceless sob. 

Then John would swallow, he’d have to muster all his courage. People would still rush past them, hurrying to catch their train or the next tube. Trying to be in time for their lives. 

He’d swallow, and then he’d say it. 

_I love you, Sherlock._

He’d watch Sherlock bite his lower lip, soft and still red from kissing; he’d watch it tremble with unsaid words. He’d lean in and kiss Sherlock again, and feel Sherlock’s reply as a warm huff of air against his own lips. He’d really rather feel it than hear it over the noise of the crowded train station. 

_I love you, too._

Lying in the darkness, John sucks in a breath and holds it, long enough until it feels as if the whole small tent was holding this breath with him, keeping him and Sherlock safe within this held breath. Instead of letting it out, he disentangles his fingers from Sherlock’s curls and grinds the heel of his hand against his eyes, as if he could stifle the tears this way. 

As if this would work. 

_I love you, too,_ that’s what Sherlock would say. John exhales, feeling his whole body tremble. 

_I love you, too._

_Fuck,_ John thinks, still crying, _I’ll tell you, Sherlock. I’ll tell you tomorrow. When we say good-bye._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the space between us](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620673) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [[Cover] Noctiluca scintillans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896064) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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